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BOOK8ELLKR 

<  >AKI.ANI>. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 


BY  THE  SAME   AUTHOR 


MODERN  PAINTING:   ITS  TEND 
ENCY  AND  MEANING 

WHAT  NIETZSCHE  TAUGHT 

IN  PREPARATION 

THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  .ESTHETIC 
FORM  AND  ORGANISATION 

VANDERVEER,  A  NOVEL 


THE 
MAN  OF  PROMISE 

BY 

WILLARD  HUNTINGTON  WRIGHT 


NEW  YORK:    JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON :    JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
MCMXVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 


THE  fever  of  commercial  enterprise  and  extension  had 
never  inflamed  the  blood  of  Greenwood.  The  city  lay 
in  a  coign  of  the  foothills  through  which  the  Susque- 
hanna  had  pierced  an  uneven  course.  The  river  ran 
at  the  foot  of  the  town  which  spread  out  comfortably, 
without  regard  for  distances,  to  the  north.  Beyond  the 
green  valley  where  the  white  houses  grouped  themselves, 
and  partially  flanking  it  on  the  east  and  west,  the  green 
hills  rose  and  undulated  into  the  distance,  like  great 
swells  of  the  sea.  On  the  south  bank  of  the  river,  the 
hills  ascended  more  abruptly,  their  sinuous  crests  modu 
lating  into  the  perspective  of  distance.  Geographically, 
Greenwood  possessed  an  air  of  solitude  and  isolation. 
This  was  emphasized  by  the  character  of  its  houses,  the 
majority  of  which  had  been  built  in  early  colonial  times. 
They  were  spacious  and  simple  houses,  dignified  and 
rarely  ornate,  set  in  the  centre  of  large  gardens.  They 
possessed  a  serene,  if  decadent,  atmosphere  attesting  to 
old-world  influence. 

Greenwood  had  retained  its  heritage  of  early  culture — 
a  culture  transplanted  from  Europe  during  the  political 
and  religious  upheavals  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Its  inhabitants  had  been  people  of  means  and 
imperturbable  ideals.  The  families  were  mainly  of  gentle 
stock,  and  for  over  three  generations  had  been  but  little 
contaminated  by  the  hectic  march  of  a  new- world  prog 
ress.  They  had  not  comprised  that  body  of  adventurous 

7 


8  : :/:  ;.: ?.JMAN/  OF  PROMISE 

pioneers  who  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  search  of  spoil, 
and  consequently  had  not  scattered  throughout  the  regions 
to  the  west  and  south.  Insulated  by  unambitious  in 
stincts,  their  children  had  intermarried  and  preserved 
the  tradition.  Many  of  the  families  still  held  the  original 
grants  to  their  property  which,  nearly  a  hundred  years 
before,  had  been  ceded  to  their  forebears  by  the  Dutch 
government.  And  though  Greenwood  had  long  since 
Overrun  its  early  boundaries  and  trickled  out  into  the 
foothills — until  now  it  was  a  city  of  nearly  15,000 — it 
still  preserved  its  sense  of  leisure  and  its  quiet  dignity. 

The  government  of  the  township  had  remained  in  the 
hands  of  the  older  families  who,  more  than  once,  had 
successfully  warded  off  commercial  interlopers.  Facto 
ries  and  other  enterprising  establishments  whose  presence 
change  the  qualifying  adjective  of  a  city  from  "dead" 
to  "flourishing,"  had  been  compelled  to  seek  quarters 
in  neighbouring  towns.  Furthermore,  those  institutions 
of  commerce  which  automatically  develop  internally  along 
with  the  increase  of  a  city's  population,  had  been  dis 
couraged  by  inadequate  transportation  routes.  The  peo 
ple  of  this  isolated  city  came  and  went  but  little,  and  the 
branch  railway,  which  had  supplied  their  needs  in  the 
early  days,  had  remained  singularly  unchanged  during 
the  passing  years.  The  great  march  of  progress,  except 
for  one  or  two  half-hearted  flirtations  which  had  been 
straightway  discouraged,  had  utterly  ignored  Green 
wood's  existence. 

Yet  the  city  had  grown  in  a  slow,  lackadaisical  manner. 
Newcomers,  once  they  had  settled  in  those  quiet  streets 
and  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  the  contented  and  un- 
eager  populace,  fell  into  the  ways  of  the  city  and  per 
petuated  its  customs.  No  gross,  unlovely  buildings,  loud 
with  machinery,  hemmed  in  its  outskirts.  No  grain  tow 
ers  or  factory  chimneys  reared  their  gaunt  heads  among 
the  white  cottages  of  the  suburbs.  No  tall  hotels,  with 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  9 

ugly  rows  of  windows,  breasted  the  main  streets.  Tran 
sient  visitors  were  few:  there  was  no  reason  for  their 
presence  in  Greenwood.  But  every  year,  from  the  great 
metropolis  in  the  south  and  from  the  state's  capital  in  the 
north,  successful  men  with  tranquil  inclinations,  retiring 
from  the  activities  of  business,  brought  their  families 
hither  and  established  homes  in  which  to  pass  their  re 
maining  years.  Thus  the  city  had  grown  quietly  and 
unostentatiously,  preserving  its  atmosphere  of  suavity 
and  good  breeding  and  maintaining  its  residential  rich 
ness  and  beauty. 

Because  of  its  placidity  and  topographical  charm, 
Greenwood  had  been  selected  by  the  State  as  an  educa 
tional  centre.  For  twenty  years  the  brick  building  on 
Oak  Hill  had  been  sending  forth  teachers  to  all  parts  of 
the  country.  The  State  College  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
hills,  just  in  the  rear  of  the  city.  It  was  a  large,  low 
building  of  golden  brick,  set  on  the  pinnacle  of  a  spacious, 
open  mound.  On  all  sides  of  it  was  green  lawn,  unbroken 
save  for  two  long,  rectangular  flower-beds  which  ran 
parallel,  one  on  either  side  of  the  wide  brick  walk  leading 
to  the  school's  entrance.  The  building  had  been  aug 
mented  many  times  in  recent  years  to  make  room  for 
its  steadily  increasing  enrolment.  But  the  brick  of  which 
the  additions  were  built  aged  quickly  beneath  the  rain  and 
snow,  so  that  they,  too,  soon  melted  into  the  city's  spirit 
of  unmodernity. 

Joseph  West's  grandfather  had  been  one  of  the  early 
settlers  in  the  city.  An  exile  for  his  beliefs,  he  had  fled 
from  Holland  at  the  overthrow  of  that  country's  older 
monarchy,  to  escape  the  wrath  of  an  upstart  prince.  Here 
he  had  dropped  his  noble  name  and  adopted  the  one  of 
West  which  symbolized  both  his  defeat  and  his  hope. 
He  had  married  a  distant  daughter  of  the  Bourbons, 
who  had  hoped  to  find  in  the  new  world  beyond  the  At 
lantic,  an  escape  from  the  horrors  of  1789,  but  from 
whose  eyes  the  sorrow  of  that  tragic  period  never  parted. 


io  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

For  two  generations  their  ideals  had  been  preserved. 
Their  heritage,  immaculate  and  unimpeached,  had  passed 
on  through  their  children  to  their  children's  children. 

Joseph  West,  now  the  only  living  grandchild,  was  a 
man  of  silent  mien  and  devout  habits.  He  ignored  the 
heresies  of  modern  thought  and  the  agitations  and  desires 
of  his  day,  following  closely  the  narrow  path  of  his  tra 
dition.  Greenwood  pleased  him,  and  he  had  always  re 
mained  there,  for  solitude  was  acceptable  to  him.  In  his 
young  manhood  he  had  gone  abroad  to  study  in  European 
universities.  He  possessed  considerable  learning  and 
no  meagre  talent.  The  position  he  had  held  for  eight 
years  as  an  instructor  in  the  Teachers'  State  College,  fitted 
in  nicely  with  his  aspirations  and  accomplishments.  His 
superiors,  for  the  most  part  aware  of  his  capabilities, 
respected  him.  It  was  not,  therefore,  surprising  to  his 
associates  that  he  should  have  received  the  appointment 
of  Director  of  the  school  at  the  death  of  the  slow-moving 
and  ponderous-minded  Emsley,  whose  stringent  formal 
ism  had  governed  and  moulded  the  institution's  ideals 
from  its  inception. 

West,  though  barely  thirty-five,  had  undertaken  his 
duties  with  a  greater  devotion  and  efficiency  than  had 
been  hoped  for.  He  saw  in  his  position  a  rare  oppor 
tunity  of  making  his  influence  felt  throughout  the  land. 
His  was  not  the  academic  and  unimaginative  personality 
possessed  by  his  predecessor.  A  deeper  and  wider  vision 
inspired  him.  He  despised  the  narrow  educational  meth 
ods  of  his  day,  and  had  formulated  broader  theories  of 
culture.  He  saw  how  strongly  the  dictates  of  commer 
cialism  influenced  education  and  how  surely  the  ideals  of 
genuine  culture  were  being  driven  out  of  the  country's 
schools  by  utilitarian  needs.  His  aims  were  high,  per 
haps  too  high  for  so  young  and  active  a  country ;  but  he 
had  succeeded  in  instilling  his  lofty  principles  into  those 
who  came  under  his  immediate  jurisdiction. 

In  a  few  short  years  he  had  given  a  new  impulse  to  his 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  n 

work.  Without  opposition  he  had  introduced  into  the 
school  curricula  a  spirit  somewhat  Hellenic  in  import. 
He  felt,  not  without  justification,  that  his  task  of  abating 
the  passionate  Philistinism  of  his  time  had  not  been  en 
tirely  fruitless.  It  was  a  silent  and  subterraneous  influ 
ence  he  exerted.  He  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  open 
reforms  would  be  discouraged  by  his  board  of  superiors. 
But  he  comforted  himself  with  the  knowledge  that  his 
influence  was  greater  in  his  present  position  than  it  would 
have  been  in  the  universities.  Here  he  dealt,  not  merely 
with  a  small  portion  of  the  youth  of  the  country,  but 
with  the  leaders  and  makers  of  schools.  He  felt,  there 
fore,  that  his  cultural  ideals  had  a  far-reaching  effect; 
and  the  routine  of  his  life  satisfied  his  intellectual  aspira 
tions. 

For  five  years  he  had  been  married.  He  lived  simply 
and  quietly  with  his  young  wife  and  his  mother,  a  brood 
ing  invalid,  in  the  old  house  which  had  belonged  to  his 
grandfather.  Amelia  West  was  a  silent,  competent 
woman,  capable  of  understanding  her  husband  and  of 
appreciating  his  quiet  ambitions.  She  gave  him  what 
little  companionship  his  solitary  nature  needed,  and  justi 
fied  the  dependence  he  felt  in  her.  Her  personality  was 
a  strong  one,  but  in  his  presence  she  buried  it  in  his  own 
preoccupations.  Though  her  influence  over  him  was 
great,  it  was  the  influence  which  arises,  not  from  initia 
tive  and  aggression,  but  from  an  insinuating  and  intelli 
gent  humility.  Except  for  his  deep  friendship  for  Caleb 
Matthews,  the  instructor  of  ancient  languages,  at  the 
State  College,  Joseph  West's  personal  interests  were 
meagre  and  unimportant.  Nine  o'clock  in  the  morning 
found  him  at  his  desk ;  at  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon, 
his  work  over,  he  walked  home  through  the  shaded 
streets.  The  remainder  of  the  day  was  spent  on  the  broad 
veranda  overlooking  his  garden-terrace  which  sloped  to 
the  river.  Evenings  he  prepared  his  lectures.  A  mel 
ancholy  and  comfortable  life — but  a  life  which  touched 


12  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

the  uttermost  boundaries  of  his  desires  and  inclinations. 

It  was  now  late  April.  A  warm  wind,  presaging  the 
advent  of  summer,  swept  through  the  maples  along  the 
river  and  entered  into  the  mild  blood  of  the  people.  The 
lawn  about  the  school-house  had  reached  its  height  of 
vividness,  and  the  flower-beds  were  alive  with  brilliant 
reds  and  blues.  Although  not  yet  four  o'clock,  Joseph 
West  walked  down  between  the  rectangles  of  gay  blos 
soms,  his  step  a  trifle  brisker  than  usual.  At  his  side  was 
Caleb  Matthews,  who,  though  much  younger  than  West, 
had  slightly  grey  hair  and  the  thin,  sharp  features  of  a 
prematurely  old  man.  These  two  had  been  friends  for 
years.  Matthews's  hand  was  upon  West's  arm,  and  he 
was  talking  earnestly,  after  his  habitual  manner.  But 
the  other  seemed  not  to  hear  him;  and  when  they  came 
to  the  foot  of  Oak  Street  where  their  ways  divided,  the 
young  Director  turned  and  walked  away  with  scarcely 
a  nod. 

He  was  nearly  running  when  he  turned  into  River 
Street  and  saw  the  pillars  of  his  home  gleaming  white 
through  the  fresh,  washed  green  of  the  young  maples. 
The  neighbours  remarked  his  haste,  a  thing  unusual  and 
incompatible  with  his  calm  and  orderly  temperament. 
But  he  looked  to  neither  right  nor  left,  and  hastening  up 
the  front  steps  and  across  the  veranda,  opened  the  door 
and  entered.  His  blood  was  full  of  the  same  emotions, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  that  nearly  thirty-five  years 
ago  had  possessed  his  father  who,  like  himself,  had  hur 
ried  home  one  late  afternoon  and  nervously  disappeared 
into  the  house. 

That  night  Joseph  West  sat  for  an  hour  at  the  window 
in  his  study,  motionlessly  watching  the  star-light  on  the 
river.  Then  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  something 
he  intended  doing,  he  turned  to  his  desk  and  slowly  wrote 
these  words  in  his  diary — and  the  handwriting  was 
bolder  and  more  methodical  than  that  of  the  other  notes 
on  the  page : 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  13 

"It  is  fitting  that  the  month  of  April  should  bring  me 
the  deepest  and  greatest  of  all  my  joys.  This  season  of 
new  life  for  all  the  trees  and  flowers  has  brought  unto 
me  also  a  new  life,  more  blessed  and  more  glorious  than 
all  of  the  Spring's  bourgeonings.  My  heart  is  full  as  I 
write  these  words  in  the  solitude  of  an  April  night,  for 
to-day  there  has  been  born  to  me  my  first  child,  a  son. 
My  son!  And  in  accordance  with  the  hopes  which  your 
dear  mother  and  I  have  harboured  throughout  the  past 
months,  your  name  shall  be  Stanford.  Into  every  letter 
of  it  is  woven  a  deep  and  lasting  love  and  an  eternal 
hope  that  you  will  never  bring  dishonour  upon  it  but 
will  live  always  in  the  fear  of  God.  Stanford  West — • 
thus  shall  you  be  known  on  earth;  and  m  the  hearts  of 
your  mother  and  of  me,  your  father,  will  ever  burn  the 
desire  that  you  will  be  upright  and  strong ;  that  in  your 
early  youth  you  will  show  the  promise  of  true  greatness ; 
and  that,  in  your  riper  years,  you  will  fulfil  that  promise 
to  the  honour  of  us  who  loved  you  and  nurtured  you." 


II 

THERE  are  old  women  living  in  Greenwood  to-day 
who,  if  you  ask  them,  will  recall  the  tragic  silence  which 
characterized  Stanford  West  during  the  years  of  his 
infancy.  He  was  long  past  the  age  when  most  children 
begin  to  chatter  before  he  articulated  a  single  word. 
His  mother  wept  in  secret  for  what  she  thought  was 
backwardness  in  her  only  child,  a  child  for  whom  she  had 
waited  five  years  and  who,  now  he  had  come,  was  so 
silent  and  so  bereft  of  that  playfulness  for  which  every 
woman  yearns  and  watches.  In  his  early  youth  Stanford 
West  rarely  smiled;  it  was  difficult  to  make  him  appear 
happy.  Even  his  few  periods  of  animation  were  brief; 
immediately  he  would  settle  into  a  state  of  uninterested- 
ness.  Later  on,  when  he  began  to  focus  his  attention  on 
the  activities  round  him,  he  showed  but  little  enthusi 
asm.  He  looked  upon  the  world  with  grave  eyes,  and 
kept  silent. 

When  old  enough  to  walk,  he  exhibited  no  inclination 
to  be  with  other  children ;  he  would  go  to  his  mother  and 
sit  by  her  without  a  word.  The  young  woman,  frightened 
by  his  air  of  melancholy,  would  take  him  in  her  arms 
and  ask  him  innumerable  questions,  trying  to  make  him 
talk.  But  he  answered  only  with  monosyllables,  often 
without  looking  at  her.  In  the  night,  when  the  child 
was  asleep,  she  would  confide  her  anxieties  and  fears 
to  her  husband.  Joseph  West  merely  laughed  quietly, 
and  told  her  it  was  the  child's  nature.  The  boy's  eyes 
were  sombre  and  thoughtful ;  his  hands  were  pliable  and 
sensitive;  his  head  was  well-moulded; — and  the  father, 
who  saw  these  things  and  understood  them,  comforted 

14 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  15 

the  unhappy  woman.  He  loved  his  son,  whose  breathing 
he  could  now  hear  in  the  small  bed  at  his  side.  He  loved 
him  with  a  greater  affection  than  he  had  thought  pos 
sible.  He  felt  that  between  them  there  had  already  grown 
up  an  intimate  if  unspoken  companionship.  He,  too, 
had  been  a  silent  child ;  his  father  had  often  chidden  him 
with  his  youthful  reticence:  and  a  gregarious  instinct 
had  never  been  part  of  his  nature.  He  believed,  therefore, 
that  he  understood  the  child.  Every  Sunday  Stanford 
West  would  walk  with  his  father  in  the  fields  beyond  the 
river  and  up  the  winding  path  which  led  to  the  shaded 
fastnesses  of  the  hills.  Always  on  crossing  the  bridge  the 
boy  would  stop  and  gaze  for  a  moment  down  the  long 
avenue  of  lazy  water,  with  its  high  green  ramparts  of 
old  trees.  When  the  hill's  summit  was  reached,  he  would 
sit  silent,  his  small  hand  in  his  father's,  and  stare  solemnly 
down  into  the  checquered  valley.  Neither  of  them  would 
speak.  The  man  knew  what  was  going  on  in  the  child's 
mind,  and  he  did  nothing  to  distract  the  silent  worshipper, 
but  waited  until  the  young  soul  should  have  its  fill  of  the 
beauty  before  it. 

So,  while  the  father  rejoiced  over  the  solitude  of  the 
boy's  nature,  the  mother  grieved  and  would  not  be  con 
soled.  At  length,  the  anxious  woman,  desperate  with 
worry,  began  to  plan.  In  large  measure  she  put  the  blame 
for  her  son's  quietude  on  the  influence  cast  by  the  in- 
validism  of  Joseph  West's  mother.  Therefore  she  de 
cided  to  enliven  the  grey  atmosphere  of  the  home.  She 
would  have  visitors;  the  children  of  the  neighbourhood 
would  find  an  irresistible  welcome  in  that  great,  spacious 
house.  Thus  she  thought  to  change  her  child's  lonely 
habits.  But  even  this  lean  hope  was  dissipated.  The 
invalid,  whose  sombre  presence  the  young  wife  had  con 
trived  to  counteract,  irremediably  lost  her  mind  as  the 
result  of  a  violent  accident.  There  followed  eight  cruel 
months  of  suffering;  then  a  final  grave  attack  to  which 
she  succumbed.  After  the  accident  the  peace  and  serenity 


1 6  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

of  the  home  vanished.  The  younger  woman's  plans  for 
her  son  were  abandoned,  for  the  house  harboured  a 
nightmare  whose  cold  hand  lay  day  and  night  upon  the 
other  members. 

Stanford  West  was  then  barely  five  years  old.  Frail 
and  sensitive,  he  did  not  escape  the  horrors  of  those 
months.  They  spelled  themselves  indelibly  upon  his 
mind — a  mind  susceptible  to  influences  and  quick  to  take 
impressions.  For  years  afterward  he  remembered  vividly 
the  hurried  footsteps  on  the  stairs  in  the  night,  the  ex 
cited,  strained  tones  behind  locked  doors,  the  stifled 
weeping,  the  woe  in  his  father's  eyes,  the  agonized  cries 
from  the  chamber,  the  sudden  silence,  the  long  casket  in 
the  living-room  and  the  sombre  figures  of  the  neighbours 
who  passed  before  it,  the  doleful  hymns  and  the  kneeling 
clergyman,  the  long  procession  through  the  rain.  ...  He 
had  been  shaken  and  dumbfounded  by  it  all.  His  silence 
was  deeper  than  before.  His  eyes  were  more  grave;  and 
he  would  stand  longer  on  the  bridge  as  he  looked  down 
the  river.  In  him  had  suddenly  been  born  the  conscious 
ness  of  defeat.  During  the  days  following  his  grand 
mother's  death  he  clung  close  to  his  father,  walking 
to  the  corner  with  him  in  the  mornings,  and  waiting 
solemnly  for  him  on  the  veranda  in  the  afternoons. 

When  Stanford  West  was  old  enough  he  was  sent  to 
the  public  school.  His  mother  hoped  that  the  enforced 
fraternity  with  other  boys  would  enliven  his  interest  in 
the  things  which  heretofore  he  had  so  continually  avoided. 
Despite  the  assurances  of  Joseph  West  and  his  calm  air 
of  contentment  regarding  the  boy,  she  nevertheless  felt 
that  her  child's  gravity  and  lack  of  communicativeness 
were  abnormal.  Often  she  stood,  with  a  sense  of  tight 
ening  about  her  throat,  watching  him  with  other  children. 
He  always  sat  apart,  his  face  resting  on  his  hands,  while 
the  others,  singing  and  calling,  ran  to  and  fro  in  the  mazes 
of  a  childish  romp.  There  was  no  distaste  in  his  attitude ; 
rather  did  it  epitomize  disinclination. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  17 

Joseph  West  was  always  pleased  with  recitals  of  the 
boy's  aloofness,  but  his  wife  did  not  understand.  She 
only  realized  that  her  boy  was  not  like  the  others.  There 
was  small  comfort  in  her  husband's  reiterations  that  the 
child  differed  from  other  boys  because  he  was  finer 
than  they;  because  he  was  more  thoughtful;  because  he 
would  some  day  be  greater  than  them  all,  and  could  not 
be  measured  by  the  same  standards.  She  did  not  want 
him  different.  She  feared  his  dissimilarity  even  though 
convinced  that  his  mind  was  not  retarded — a  fact  of 
which  she  now  had  ample  evidence  in  his  quickness  to 
understand  and  to  learn  what  she  taught  him.  She  still 
resented  what  she  viewed  as  eccentricities  in  his  conduct. 

The  truth  was  she  was  following  unconsciously  the 
deepest  instinct  in  her  nature.  She  was  conservative  in 
all  things,  and  when  the  consciousness  of  motherhood  had 
come  to  her,  this  conservatism  in  petty  matters  had  sud 
denly  developed  into  a  sense  of  racial  conservation. 
What  she  really  feared  was  that  her  son  might  find  paths 
she  could  not  follow.  The  preservation  of  the  type  man, 
as  she  had  known  it,  was  her  vital,  if  unguessed,  concern. 
Therefore,  when  she  pictured  her  son  as  a  man  differ 
ent  from  his  father,  she  was  frightened.  It  was  the  un 
knowable,  the  new,  the  unprecedented,  which  appalled 
her.  She  hoped  with  singular  passion  that  the  influence 
of  school  would  whittle  the  child's  nature  into  a  replica 
of  the  boys  about  him.  She,  too,  so  she  told  herself, 
would  begin,  now  that  he  was  old  enough,  to  mould  him 
into  her  own  ideal,  to  turn  his  thoughts  from  the  unusual 
to  the  commonplace,  to  give  him  that  vision  which  sees 
only  what  the  world  sees,  to  focus  his  ambitions  on  the 
standard  set  by  his  father. 

School  life,  however,  only  emphasized  Stanford  West's 
inclinations.  Ill  at  ease  from  the  first,  his  feeling  of  dis 
content  did  not  leave  him.  He  learned  quickly  and  fac- 
ilely.  His  habits  were  measured  and  meticulous.  He 
listened  attentively  to  all  that  was  told  him,  and  rarely 


1 8  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

spoke.  Called  upon  directly  for  a  recitation,  he  responded 
tentatively,  but  always  gave  a  good  account  of  himself. 
When  he  sat  down,  it  was  with  the  relief  and  satisfaction 
which  follow  a  disagreeable  ordeal  well  performed.  In 
his  contact  with  the  other  children,  he  was  decorous  and 
modest.  But  his  very  reserve  made  him  an  outcast.  Not 
that  he  cared.  Isolation  never  troubled  him ;  and  the  dig 
nified  seriousness  of  his  bearing  went  far  in  warding  off 
the  malicious  chaffing  which,  otherwise,  so  unfamiliar  a 
figure  as  he  would  have  called  forth.  He  was  never 
approached  with  overtures  of  friendship;  nor  did  he 
himself  seek  participation  in  the  games  the  others  played. 
His  father  made  inquiries,  and  was  filled  with  admira 
tion.  His  mother  made  inquiries,  and  was  broken 
hearted.  Even  when  she  was  told  that  she  had  "a  highly 
gifted  and  remarkable  child,"  it  seemed  only  to  intensify 
the  fact  that  her  son  was  strange  and  unusual. 

During  these  early  school  years,  the  bond  between  the 
boy  and  his  father  grew  closer  and  closer.  But  his 
mother's  fears  deepened  and  became  more  tangible  as 
the  boy's  personality  strengthened.  She  felt  that  every 
day  weakened  her  hold  upon  him  and  lessened  her  chances 
of  directing  his  nature  into  conventional  channels.  This 
feeling  was  emphasized  by  the  fact  that  her  husband 
rarely  attempted  to  exert  an  influence  over  the  boy.  "If 
he  is  to  be  great" — thus  would  he  answer  the  protesta 
tions  of  the  unhappy  woman — "his  mind  must  not  be 
hampered.  He  must  be  permitted  to  find  his  own  groove 
in  the  world  and  to  mould  his  own  destiny."  But  she 
would  answer  that  she  wanted  her  son  to  be  great  as  his 
father  was  great,  not  to  follow  wild  paths  of  which  she 
had  no  knowledge  and  whose  destination  she  could  not 
foresee.  "He  will  follow  in  my  path,"  Joseph  West 
would  answer.  "He  will  grow  up  with  me  and  carry  on 
the  work  which  I  have  begun."  The  father  also  had 
secret  hopes  for  the  boy — hopes  coloured  and  limited  by 
his  own  life  and  ambitions.  He  recognized  himself 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  19 

mirrofed  in  the  child.     He  sensed  in  the  small,  silent     / 
companion  of  his  walks  the  consummation  of  those  cul-    ! 
tural  ideals  for  which  he  was  now  giving  his  life. 

When  Stanford  West  was  old  enough  his  father  told 
him  of  his  noble  ancestors.  The  boy  asked  for  many 
details;  he  was  proud  of  so  fine  a  romance.  He  never 
tired  of  listening  to  the  story,  especially  the  part  relating 
to  the  bravery  and  calm  with  which  the  nobles  faced  the 
guillotine.  Herein  lay  his  admiration.  He  regretted  the 
misgovernment  which  brought  on  the  retribution  of  the 
Revolution,  but  consoled  himself  for  the  Bourbon  inepti 
tude  by  the  fact  that  those  who  had  put  the  royal  family 
to  death  could  produce  only  a  rule  of  violence,  terrorism 
and  anarchy.  He  was  sorry  Louis  XVIII  had  returned 
to  the  throne  and  been  deposed,  for  the  exploits  of  "the 
little  corporal"  fired  his  imagination.  Had  not  Napoleon, 
too,  been  of  noble  birth?  The  story  of  his  great  grand 
father  also  had  to  be  told  him  many  times;  his  youthful 
soul  was  quick  to  discover  the  moving  romance  of  those 
early,  troubled  times.  Proud  of  his  blood,  he  felt  a  strong 
impulse  to  uphold  his  stirring  tradition.  He  was  care 
ful  of  his  actions,  lest  they  should  exhibit  snobbishness ; 
and  was  always  scrupulously  chivalrous,  as  became  one 
with  his  prestige. 

Stanford  West  soon  came  to  look  upon  his  father  with 
pride.  Here  was  a  man  worthy  of  emulation.  The 
courtesy  and  respect  shown  Joseph  West  by  all  those 
who  knew  him  heightened  the  boy's  already  powerful 
desire  to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  to  become  a  great  teacher 
of  men,  a  disseminator  of  fine  thoughts  and  high  ideals. 
His  father's  vocation  was  the  highest  of  which  he  could 
conceive;  and  his  father's  learning,  which  he  felt  was 
very  great,  filled  him  with  admiration.  Some  day  he, 
too,  would  be  learned.  The  desire  and  the  belief  were 
one.  He  applied  himself  sedulously  to  his  school  tasks. 
He  read  for  hours  in  the  books  his  father  gave  him.  He 
soon  found  that  his  studies  and  his  reading  were  pleas- 


20  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

ing  and  diverting.  The  discovery  delighted  him.  Thus 
far  there  was  nothing  irksome  in  the  path  which  led  to 
the  dizzy  heights  of  success  to  which  his  father  had  at 
tained.  He  felt  not  only  that,  in  following  his  father's 
example,  he  was  doing  what  was  right  and  best,  but  that 
he  had  found  a  task  congenial  to  himself. 

During  this  period  his  mother  watched  him  with  a  feel 
ing  akin  to  ease  of  mind.  Perhaps  her  fears  had  been 
groundless.  After  all,  the  strange,  silent  boy,  whom 
bereft  women  instinctively  wanted  to  gather  into  their 
arms,  might  find  his  destiny  in  following  the  ways  of  his 
father.  These  were  the  days  in  which  her  child  was  very 
near  to  her.  She  hovered  over  him  expectantly,  encour 
aging  him  in  his  youthful  attempts  at  gathering  knowl 
edge.  And  Stanford  West  relied  upon  his  mother  more 
than  he  had  before.  He  came  to  her  with  his  problems, 
and  she  was  happy. 

Two  years  sped  away  while  the  boy  forged  on  toward 
his  childish  ambition.  He  was  now  twelve,  physically 
robust  and  mentally  alert.  At  school  he  accomplished 
nearly  two  years'  work  in  one,  preferring  study  to  play. 
When  the  holidays  came,  bringing  with  them  the  stagna 
tion  of  deep  summer  and  the  cessation  from  work,  he 
would  wander  along  the  river  and  among  the  hills,  dis 
contented  and  without  the  instinct  for  recreation. 

Standing  on  the  crest  of  Crow's  Nest,  looking  down 
upon  the  city's  grey  and  red  roofs  half-hidden  by  the 
maple  trees  now  motionless  in  the  summer  heat,  he  began 
to  project  his  mind  beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  valley. 
He  could  plainly  see  the  red  brick  college  which  enfolded 
his  father's  life  and  aspirations,  forsaken  and  isolated 
on  its  stretch  of  green  lawn.  There  had  been  a  time 
when,  looking  upon  this  building,  he  had  imagined  him 
self  seated  at  the  desk  in  the  little  office  which  formed  a 
sharp  projection  to  the  north.  The  vision  had  intoxicated 
his  mind  and  set  his  heart  beating  faster.  But  how  small 
the  school  seemed  that  summer  day,  viewed  from  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  21 

hill's  summit !  And  how  small  was  this  city  in  which 
he  had  been  born! 

He  looked  down  the  river,  across  the  interminable 
meadows.  Suddenly  the  genius  of  a  world  far  beyond 
the  swaying  wheat  came  and  stood  beside  him,  thrilling 
him  with  tales  of  distant  lands  and  with  promises  of 
future  glory.  He  tried  to  locate  his  own  house  behind 
the  trees  along  the  river.  When  his  eye  found  the  small 
window-lined  cupola  in  which  he  had  spent  so  many 
hours  with  his  books,  he  experienced  a  sensation  of  pathos 
whose  meaning  he  could  not  understand.  His  home 
seemed  far  away  and  very  small;  and  he  felt  the  alien 
genius  again  directing  his  eyes  down  the  valley.  He  was 
sure  that  somewhere  beyond  the  horizon  there  were 
colleges  far  larger  than  the  one  below  him  in  Greenwood. 
And  he  was  sure  that  there  were  other  men,  different  men, 
who,  like  his  father,  sat  in  their  offices  and  directed  the 
destinies  of  those  about  them.  That  he  had  permitted 
this  last  thought  troubled  his  conscience,  for  he  revered 
that  gentle,  courteous  man  who  had  first  led  him  as  a 
little  child  to  the  great  rock  on  which  he  now  stood.  For 
days  afterward  Stanford  West  was  overcome  with  a 
restiveness  whose  source  he  could  not  trace  and  whose 
import  he  did  not  guess. 

With  his  mother  he  went  to  concerts,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  felt  the  splendid  spell  of  music.  It  heightened 
his  unrest  and  made  him  sad.  It  recalled  the  day  he  had 
first  discovered  the  littleness  of  his  city  and  associated 
itself  with  the  genius  from  beyond  the  valley  who  had 
come  and  stood  beside  him.  Sometimes  he  sat  at  the 
piano  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  searching  for  chords  and 
working  out  sequences.  Unresolved  chords  pleased  him 
the  most,  and  he  would  linger  over  them,  striking  them 
again  and  again.  Often  he  asked  his  mother  to  play  for 
him.  She,  a  good  musician,  would  purposely  begin  some 
inconsequential  melody.  But  the  boy  would  stop  her 
and  ask  for  things  which  made  the  good  woman  wonder 


22  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

at  his  unusual  tastes.  Was  it  normal  for  a  boy  of  twelve 
to  prefer  Schumann  and  Mozart  to  the  gayer  and  more 
piquant  composers?  She  would  ask  him  the  reason  for 
his  preferences,  but  his  answers  only  troubled  her  the 
more.  Sometimes  he  would  demand  florid  and  militant 
music,  and  when  he  told  her  it  was  unlike  Greenwood  and 
its  people,  she  was  too  puzzled  to  reply,  and  would  go 
straightway  to  her  husband  and  tell  him  of  these  strange 
criticisms. 

It  was  during  his  summer  vacation  that  Stanford  West 
began  his  reading  of  the  poets.  These  books  of  verse 
made  a  deeper  appeal  to  him  than  had  any  of  the  others. 
He  would  sit  alone  through  the  late  hours  of  the  after 
noon,  enthralled  by  the  new  discovery  of  rhyme  and 
rhythm.  He  stated  his  preferences  to  his  father,  who 
encouraged  him  in  this  new  enthusiasm,  seeking  out  other 
treasures  for  him  among  the  great  shelves  in  the  study. 
Thereafter  when  the  boy  went  into  the  hills  on  his  soli 
tary  walks,  he  always  carried  with  him  a  slender  volume. 
His  new  passion  was  greater  than  any  he  had  hitherto 
experienced. 

Before  summer  was  over,  the  instinct  of  creation  had 
seized  him.  At  first  he  had  not  understood  the  delicious 
fever  which  assailed  him  whenever  he  read  a  particularly 
resonant  passage  of  poetry.  Then  suddenly  one  night, 
as  he  sat  alone  in  his  father's  study,  there  came  to  him  the 
definite  desire  to  write  something  which  would  be  his 
own.  A  trace  of  late  summer  twilight  lingered  along  the 
crest  of  the  hills  beyond  the  river.  Here  and  there 
through  the  trees  glowed  the  orange  lights  of  early 
lamps.  A  faint  lapping  of  water  arose  along  the  banks 
of  the  river.  All  about  was  the  solitude  of  summer. 
The  night,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  saddened  him. 
The  impressions  of  his  long  summer — a  summer  which 
had  brought  him  the  aroma  of  distant  places  and  the  reve 
lation  of  poetry  and  music — drifted  clearly  across  his 
mind.  He  had  thought  them  transient,  and  wondered 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  23 

that  they  should  return.  This  discovery  of  himself  fo 
cused  his  mind  on  what  seemed  a  necessity  to  set  down 
his  mood  and  preserve  it.  He  began  to  write  the  reminis 
cences  of  those  psychological  experiences  which  once 
again  had  become  so  real  and  clear-cut.  As  he  wrote  he 
understood  his  restlessness.  He  realized  that  his  im 
pulse  toward  beauty — the  gratification  of  which  had  al 
ways  left  him  disconsolate — had  been  one  with  the  in 
stinct  for  visual  thought. 

After  that  night  the  instinct  became  more  tyrannical. 
He  wrote  continually  in  a  little  note-book  which  he  kept 
hidden  in  his  room;  and  in  his  secret  practice  he  found 
the  consolation  he  had  needed,  but  which  till  now  he  had 
not  known  existed.  Having  found  an  outlet  for  the 
thoughts  and  impressions  which  followed  him  through 
out  the  day,  he  did  not  look  upon  them  with  the  same 
feeling  of  unhappy  resignation.  The  emotions  he  felt 
when  his  mother  played  to  him,  the  moods  that  came 
over  him  as  he  walked  among  the  hills,  the  splendid 
intoxication  which  fired  him  when  he  read  the  poetry  his 
father  gave  him — all  these  things  he  set  down  and 
described.  He  had  a  feeling  for  fine  phrases  and  sono 
rous  words,  and  sometimes  tried  his  hand  at  short  lyrics. 
These  imitative  and  doleful  strophes  filled  his  childish 
soul  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

He  began  to  watch  himself.  He  spied  on  his  thoughts. 
He  took  an  interest  in  people  and  found  a  new  delight  in 
the  activities  of  those  about  him.  The  differences  in 
people's  opinions,  as  well  as  in  their  physical  charac 
teristics,  became  manifest  to  him.  Whenever  he  heard 
music  he  would  analyse  its  mood  and  recount  in  his  note 
book  its  effect  upon  him.  He  wrote  a  long  account  of  his 
grandmother's  death  and  his  impressions  during  her  ill 
ness.  The  subject  of  his  own  future  began  to  take  on  a 
serious  aspect.  One  day  it  occurred  to  him  that,  if  he 
followed  the  example  of  his  father  and  spent  his  days  as 
a  great  teacher,  he  would  have  no  opportunity  to  write. 


24  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

For  a  time  the  thought  depressed  him,  but  his  mind  soon 
turned  from  it  to  his  immediate  surroundings.  He  be 
came  intoxicated  with  all  manifestations  of  life;  and  for 
the  first  time  was  happy.  Even  the  memories  which  had 
hitherto  depressed  him,  became  vivid  and  interesting. 
Now  he  could  set  down  his  past  experiences.  They  thus 
became  material  for  his  new  joy  of  self-expression. 


Ill 

THREE  years  came  and  went,  years  overflowing  with 
an  abundance  of  joy.  His  active  soul  was  quick  to  recog 
nize  and  absorb  the  beauties  round  him.  His  mother, 
conscious  of  the  sudden  change  in  him,  rejoiced.  His 
father  saw  in  his  avidity  for  study  the  coming  fulfilment 
of  his  own  ambitions  for  the  boy.  Stanford  West  was 
nearly  sixteen,  hale,  clear-eyed  and  conspicuously  able. 
He  followed  the  courses  of  instruction  laid  out  by  his 
father,  and  was  eager  for  learning.  He  made  companions 
among  his  school-fellows,  throwing  himself  with  zest  into 
the  healthy  outdoor  escapades  of  the  other  students.  He 
became  the  intellectual  leader  of  the  members  of  his 
class,  and  commanded  their  respect.  They  came  to 
him  for  advice  and  ideas,  and  went  home  to  their  parents 
with  stirring  tales  of  his  accomplishments. 

His  writing  now  was  not  entirely  secret.  The  things 
he  cared  for  most  he  showed  his  father,  who  encouraged 
and  helped  him.  His  life  was  full — full  of  the  fine  fer 
vour  of  youth  and  fired  with  the  divine  delight  of  self- 
expression.  He  read  voluminously  from  the  poets  and 
philosophers  and  the  masters  of  living  prose.  Spirited 
and  splendid  emotions  surged  up  in  him.  He  dreamed 
of  the  fine  deeds  and  the  stout  hearts  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
He  envied  the  master  accomplishments  of  the  Renais 
sance.  He  longed  for  the  dangers  of  the  Napoleonic 
epoch.  He  projected  himself  into  the  vigorous  romances 
of  ancient  Greece.  Of  all  these  intoxications  he  wrote 
in  prose  and  verse.  His  tastes  broadened.  New  prob 
lems  presented  themselves,  and  he  pondered  over  them. 
He  began  to  think  more  and  more  of  his  future  and  to 
analyse  the  advantages  of  the  life  he  had  planned. 

25 


26  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

A  change  came  over  his  viewpoint.  Unknowingly,  he 
had  lost  many  illusions  regarding  his  father  and  mother. 
The  role  he  had  chosen  failed  to  gratify  his  ardent  ambi 
tions.  It  was  puny  compared  with  the  vast  outlook  which, 
in  the  silence  of  grey  twilight,  loomed  up  beyond  the  en 
circling  hills.  Were  there  not  greater  men  than  his 
father?  Even  Joseph  West  took  orders  from  mysterious 
directors  in  another  and  larger  city.  What  of  the  writers 
of  those  sombre,  maroon  books  which  formed  the  guide- 
posts  of  his  father's  teachings?  And  what  of  those  men 
who,  throughout  the  ages,  had  given  birth  to  new 
thoughts,  conceived  new  systems  and  dreamed  new  ideals  ? 
He  had  read  their  books.  Even  his  father  spoke  of  them 
reverently.  They  were  the  epoch-makers,  the  true  leaders 
of  mankind.  They  were  the  great  motivating  forces  of 
humanity.  Why  should  he  not  emulate  them?  Their 
footsteps  led  into  the  clouds.  Here  were  regions  worthy 
of  attainment. 

Stanford  West,  standing  upon  the  threshold  of  ado 
lescence,  doubted  not  his  ultimate  possibilities.  Once 
more  the  question  of  his  writing  troubled  him.  Should 
he  follow  the  lines  cast  for  his  father,  it  would  be  the  end 
to  those  exquisite  hours  of  personal  labour.  Could  he 
bring  himself  to  forswear  this  instinct  which  dominated 
every  conscious  moment  of  his  life?  He  faced  the  future 
with  apprehension.  Despondency  seized  him.  He  went 
a  week  without  writing  to  test  his  power  of  abstinence. 
His  suffering  during  that  time  was  acute;  a  thousand 
thoughts  had  struggled  for  expression.  He  returned  to 
his  note-book  stricken  with  grief  and  confused  in  mind. 

The  autumn  season  intensified  his  depression.  No 
vember  had  denuded  the  trees  and  laid  waste  the  hills. 
A  cold  wind  rattled  the  dead  leaves  against  the  house. 
His  mind,  quick  to  adjust  itself  to  an  environment,  reg 
istered  the  melancholy  impressions  of  the  barren  world. 
He  grew  weary  of  his  former  projects.  His  school  life 
became  tiresome.  The  routine  chafed.  Now  his  studies 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  27 

seemed  to  lead  him  nowhere.  Their  significance  had  van 
ished.  His  lessons,  once  so  neatly  organized  with  his 
future  plans  and  so  well  co-ordinated  with  his  dominating 
ambitions,  suddenly  turned  to  chaos.  He  longed  to  escape 
from  them.  His  school-books  became  chains  which  im 
prisoned  him  in  a  world  too  narrow  to  satisfy  him.  He 
wanted  to  escape,  to  pay  no  heed  save  to  his  own 
thoughts,  to  follow  out  the  dreams  with  which  his  mind 
overflowed,  to  spend  his  whole  time  in  the  only  affair 
which  gratified  him — his  writing. 

He  told  some — not  all — of  his  misgivings  and  longings 
to  his  father  and  mother.  His  mother  wept  and 
attempted  to  argue  him  out  of  his  despondency.  Un- 
appeased,  he  turned  from  her  with  only  the  added  pang 
of  pity.  His  father  did  not  argue.  Wisdom  mastered 
Joseph  West's  disappointment.  He  asked  his  son  to 
name  what  he  desired,  and  promised  to  aid  him  in  his  new 
ambitions.  The  boy  was  abashed.  He  neither  knew  his 
desires  nor  understood  his  ambitions.  Like  one  who  had 
suffered  a  defeat  he  returned  to  his  work. 

But  the  question  had  its  effect.  What  indeed  did  he 
desire  ?  What  was  this  new  ambition  ?  He  worked  dog 
gedly  and  persistently,  but  never  escaped  the  perplexity 
of  this  new  problem.  He  began  to  analyse  his  natural 
impulses,  to  weigh  his  possibilities.  He  projected  himself 
into  numerous  vocations.  But  whatever  the  line  of  en 
deavour  he  momentarily  considered,  it  was  cast  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  city  animated  with  life  and  ablaze  with 
colour.  Never  could  he  imagine  himself  bound  to  Green 
wood.  He  had  begun  to  dislike  the  city  of  his  birth.  Its 
streets  and  people  had  become  too  familiar,  its  boundaries 
too  restricted.  He  had  a  feeling,  deep-seated  and  inerad 
icable,  that  he  would  soon  outgrow  its  limitations,  He 
hungered  for  great  distances,  for  glaring  changes.  The 
monotonous  vision  of  his  present  environment  left  him 
with  a  sense  of  suffocation.  When  twilight  settled  over 
the  valley,  he  became  keenly  aware  that  far  away  beyond 


28  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

the  grey  sky-line  there  was  another  life,  splendid  and 
resonant — a  life  of  great  triumphs  and  tragic  defeats,  of 
mighty  conquests  and  magnificent  rewards.  This  was  the 
world  of  which  he  wished  to  be  a  part.  But  how  was 
he  to  exert  his  power?  How  disperse  his  vitality?  The 
passion  of  leadership,  the  dream  of  greatness,  were  his. 
That  he  might  become  a  writer  of  moving  books  did  not 
at  present  occur  to  him.  His  instinct  of  self-expression 
was  too  intimate  and  personal  a  thing. 

In  his  groping  after  a  solution  to  his  perplexity,  he 
began  to  weigh  his  opinions,  to  question  his  beliefs. 
Things  which  heretofore  he  had  accepted  without  reserva 
tion,  he  now  surveyed  from  the  standpoint  of  intrinsic 
value.  The  inevitable  question  of  religion  for  the  mo 
ment  transcended  all  others.  He  began  to  balance  the 
authority  of  his  mother  and  father  against  that  of  the 
mighty  free-thinkers  whose  utterances  he  occasionally 
encountered  in  his  reading.  He  discovered,  at  first  to 
his  horror,  that  his  faith  in  the  religious  teachings  of  his 
family  were  weakening.  The  queries  which  for  centuries 
had  assailed  the  minds  of  mankind  presented  themselves 
to  him  anew,  with  terrible  and  devastating  force.  He 
sought  out  the  works  of  the  great  immoralists  and 
plunged  into  them  with  the  rashness  of  youth.  Fortified 
by  the  doctrines  of  atheism,  he  argued  with  bitterness 
against  his  mother's  beliefs.  It  was  the  bitterness  born 
of  doubt,  not  of  conviction.  He  constantly  wondered 
whither  his  arguments  would  lead.  Thereafter  the  fright 
ened  woman  watched  his  reading.  Certain  books  were 
taken  from  his  hands  and  forbidden  him.  At  this  he  be 
came  resentful,  and  argued  against  the  venerated  dogmas 
of  the  past  more  bitterly  than  ever.  But  despite  his 
doubts,  he  dared  not  make  a  final  renunciation  of  his  early 
teachings.  His  position  was  too  insecure.  Yet  he  felt 
vaguely  that  his  mother's  interference  in  his  reading  was 
a  handicap  to  that  mental  development  which  sooner  or 
later  would  solve  the  problem  of  his  future. 


IV 

WINTER  passed.  Stanford  West  continued  his  pre 
carious  meditations.  His  school  tasks  were  discharged 
competently  but  without  distinction.  His  mind  was  pre 
occupied  with  the  uncertainty  of  Christian  formulas.  He 
vacillated  between  pious  acceptance  and  daring  negation. 
He  knew  that,  left  to  himself,  he  would  soon  have  broken 
with  the  dicta  of  his  early  training.  But  when  he  con 
sidered  the  pain  such  a  breach  would  cause  his  mother 
and  father,  his  conscience  interfered :  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  declare  openly  against  the  beliefs  so  dear  to 
them.  Many  times  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  renuncia 
tion,  when  the  tears  in  his  mother's  eyes  checked  him. 
Again,  his  father's  words,  fraught  with  love  and  tender 
ness,  melted  his  audacity.  The  old  admiration  for  his 
father,  coupled  with  his  early  memories,  acted  upon  him 
more  powerfully  than  argument. 

But  the  tenets  of  his  youth,  strengthened  by  years  of 
unquestioning  acceptance,  were  slowly  breaking  down. 
His  mind,  influenced  by  reading  and  self-observation,  had 
begun  to  operate  independently.  Young  as  he  was,  he 
began  to  consider  virtue  in  the  abstract,  to  conceive  of 
Christian  ethics  divested  of  theological  nomenclature  and 
stripped  of  their  accompanying  beliefs.  Then,  at  the 
moment  when  he  would  have  repudiated  the  insignia  of 
virtue  and  compromised  by  retaining  the  substance,  the 
pressure  from  his  parents,  backed  by  the  impact  of  love, 
drove  him  from  his  position.  Reproaching  himself,  he 
would  strive  to  regain  the  faith  of  his  boyhood. 

One  day  in  early  spring  he  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of 
the  veranda.  He  had  been  reading,  but  his  mind  had 

29 


30  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

become  restless,  and  the  book  lay  closed  at  his  side.  A 
light  wind  shook  the  trees  over  the  swollen  river.  The 
young  grass  was  just  showing  itself.  Here  and  there 
were  colour-spots  of  early  spring  flowers.  Beyond  the 
trees'  branches,  speckled  with  tiny  buds,  the  yellow-green 
hills  glistened  in  the  sunlight.  Masses  of  white  cloud 
moved  swiftly  above  the  hill's  summit.  From  every 
where  came  the  rich  fragrance  of  spring.  Stanford  West 
was  rapidly  approaching  young  manhood.  In  another 
week  he  would  be  seventeen.  But  the  problems  which 
for  over  a  year  had  troubled  him  seemed  no  nearer  a  solu 
tion.  The  desire  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his  father, 
however,  had  become  more  remote  than  ever  during  the 
past  months;  and  the  great  question  of  religion  had 
brought  him  to  a  seeming  impasse.  To  answer  this  ques 
tion  as  his  instincts  dictated  would  be  to  bring  misery 
and  heartache  to  those  who  loved  him.  Yet  strive  as  he 
would,  he  could  not  justify  to  himself  his  early  beliefs. 

As  he  looked  forth  upon  the  new  buds  and  the  blinding 
shimmer  of  sunshine  on  the  hills,  an  irresistible  desire  to 
write  laid  hold  upon  him.  For  a  while  he  awaited  the 
impression  he  wished  to  seize.  It  came  quickly  and 
clearly,  and  he  was  soon  in  the  midst  of  a  rhapsodic  fan 
tasy  of  early  spring.  In  it  was  encompassed  his  new 
and  half-formed  paganism.  It  denied  God  and  glorified 
the  spirit  of  the  out-of-doors.  It  called  upon  the  children 
of  men  to  forget  their  dogmas  and  to  seek  a  more  gra 
cious  life  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  fields  and  in  the  wooded 
temples  of  the  hills.  While  he  wrote  his  mother  came  to 
him.  Seating  herself  at  his  side,  she  took  the  paper  from 
his  hand  and  read.  The  young  poet  watched  the  silent 
woman.  Her  face  became  grave.  And  did  she  whiten 
a  little?  He  saw  the  tears  come  to  her  eyes,  and  was 
sorry  he  had  pained  her.  At  that  moment  she  tore  his 
composition  in  two  and  turned  upon  him  with  hopeless 
anger. 

"It  has  come  to  this — after  all!"     She  looked  at  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  31 

boy  searchingly  as  if  he  were  a  stranger  to  her.  "To 
think  that  a  child  of  mine — • — "  Her  voice  choked,  but 
she  mastered  herself  and  went  on,  speaking  like  one  who 
had  been  deeply  injured  by  a  great  wrong.  "How  little 
you  must  care  for  all  your  father  and  I  have  done  for 
you,  that  you  can  turn  upon  us  like  this  and  ridicule  the 
most  sacred  things  in  our  lives/' 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  or  ridicule  your  beliefs," 
responded  the  boy.  His  mother  did  not  answer,  and  he 
felt  called  upon  to  explain.  "That  was  only  what  I  felt 
for  the  moment,  sitting  here  in  the  open — in  the  spring." 

The  woman,  seeming  not  to  hear  him,  said:  "What 
have  we  done  to  deserve  this?  That  a  child  I  have  al 
ways  watched  over  and  loved  should  turn  out  an  unbe 
liever  and  a  denier  of  God !" 

She  paused,  stunned  by  the  horror  of  the  thought. 
"I'd  rather  never  have  brought  you  into  the  world  than 
have  had  you  lost  to  me  like  this."  Then  she  broke  down 
and  cried. 

Stanford  West  left  the  distracted  woman  and  went 
quietly  to  his  room.  He  loved  his  mother  and  pitied  her 
in  her  distress.  But  he  felt,  too,  the  sting  of  personal 
injustice.  No  longer  did  he  doubt  the  right  of  his  cause; 
and  the  problem  became  more  serious.  He  had  suffered 
a  direct  and  open  repression  of  his  actions.  At  once  he 
became  more  concerned  with  parental  interference.  So 
long  as  it  was  confined  to  mere  opinions,  he  could  hide 
his  real  beliefs  and  thus  spare  his  mother  and  father 
unhappiness.  Now  that  his  personal  writings  were  to 
be  censored,  the  situation  took  on  a  different  aspect.  He 
foresaw  open  conflict.  Such  a  prospect  would  not  have 
daunted  him  had  he  not  been  handicapped  by  a  sense  of 
duty  and  a  feeling  of  tenderness  toward  his  antagonists. 
These  things  constituted  powerful  weapons  against  him. 
He  knew  their  efficacy.  They  had  been  used  on  him 
before,  and  they  had  conquered  him. 

He  viewed  the  future  with  apprehension.    Forecasting 


32  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

its  possible  consequences,  he  was  overwhelmed  with  grief. 
That  his  mother  had  been  unfair  to  him,  he  was  con 
vinced.  What  right  had  she  to  destroy  the  lines  he  had 
written  ?  They  were  his  own  thoughts,  his  own  emotions. 
His  resentment  was  neither  keen  nor  vicious.  He  knew 
that  sorrow  had  dictated  her  action — sorrow  born  of  an 
overpowering  love.  But  he  suddenly  sensed  the  futility 
of  there  ever  being  a  complete  reconciliation  between 
him  and  the  woman  who  bore  him.  He  knew  she  would 
not  change;  her  beliefs  were  an  integral  part  of  her 
nature;  they  constituted  at  once  her  comfort  and  her 
strength.  He  knew,  too,  that  he  could  never  succumb 
entirely  to  her  decrees.  He  understood  his  temperament 
sufficiently  to  realize  that  when  he  wrote  he  could  not 
brook  interference.  His  writing  was  his  one  outlet :  in 
its  spontaneity  lay  its  joy. 

As  he  meditated  on  the  gravity  of  the  episode,  his 
father  entered  the  room  and  sat  down  facing  him. 
Suddenly  he  knew  that  the  first  serious  conflict  of  his  life 
was  at  hand.  He  took  the  defensive  sullenly  and  waited. 

Joseph  West  began  gently,  "My  son,  I  don't  want  to 
blame  you  or  reproach  you.  But  I  want  to  understand 
you,  and  I  want  you  to  understand  me." 

Having  expected  a  harsh  remonstrance,  the  boy  was 
startled  at  his  father's  gentleness.  Not  knowing  what  to 
say,  he  kept  silent. 

The  man  went  on  in  the  same  quiet  tone.  He  spoke 
first  of  the  barren  years  following  his  marriage,  and  of 
the  longings  and  the  prayers  which  filled  them.  He  told 
of  his  happiness  when,  his  hopes  fulfilled,  a  new  life  of 
his  own  flesh  and  blood  had  come  to  him.  He  recounted 
the  early  anxieties  and  fears  which  companioned  the 
hours  when  the  child  had  been  unwell  or  unhappy.  He 
revoiced  the  hopes  and  ambitions  he  had  cherished  as  the 
boy  grew  older  and  stronger. 

"It  was  my  great  desire,"  he  said,  "that  when  you  be 
came  a  man,  you  would  be  worthy  of  all  the  love  and 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  33 

devotion  your  mother  and  I  had  poured  into  your  child 
hood — that  you  would  be  great  and  respected  and  bring 
honour  to  your  name.  When  the  bond  between  you  and 
me  grew  stronger,  I  came  to  look  upon  my  life  only  as  a 
preparation  for  yours.  I  did  the  things  which  fell  to  my 
lot,  in  the  faith  that  I  was  building  a  foundation  for  you. 
I  wanted  you  to  take  up  my  work  when  I  should  have 
to  lay  it  down,  and  to  carry  on  the  ideals  I  handed  down 
to  you.  For  years  I've  been  looking  forward  to  the  day 
when  my  dreams  would  be  yours.  And  all  the  time  I 
watched  over  you  closely;  I  guided  you  lovingly  wher 
ever  you  went;  I  tried  to  instil  in  you  the  nobility  of 
high  endeavour  and  the  fear  of  God.  You  know  it  won't 
be  long  before  that  little  college  on  the  hill  will  be  a 
mighty  force.  I've  worked  hard  for  it,  for  I  thought  that 
some  day  you  might  lead  it.  And  yet  I've  never  stood 
between  you  and  the  things  you  desired.  Your  destiny 
was  your  own.  When  the  time  came,  if  the  work  I 
planned  for  you  wasn't  what  you  wanted,  you'd  have 
found  no  opposition  in  me.  I'd  have  been  disappointed, 
but  I'd  have  helped  you,  for  your  happiness  was  my  one 
concern." 

Joseph  West  stopped.  But  the  boy  remained  silent: 
he  was  fighting  against  the  emotions  his  father's  words 
evoked,  for  he  felt  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  com 
bat  the  tyranny  of  devotion  by  which  he  was  ruled.  The 
gentle  voice  was  speaking  again: 

"My  son,  there's  no  happiness  along  the  path  you  are 
going.  There's  no  comfort  for  you,  and  there's  no  re 
ward.  Other  men  have  tried  it,  but  they  have  been  the 
world's  failures.  A  life  without  faith  accomplishes  noth 
ing.  You  may  look  upon  that  remark  as  old-fashioned. 
Well,  there  was  a  time  when  I  revolted  against  my  father, 
but  I  soon  came  to  see  that  his  was  the  greater  wisdom. 
You  are  young  yet;  you  can't  judge  things  from  the 
world's  standpoint.  That's  why  you  think  your  mother 
and  I  are  behind  the  times;  that's  why  you  ridicule  our 


34  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

beliefs.  But  believe  me,  my  son,  there  will  come  a  time 
when  you  will  look  back  upon  this  revolt  with  deep  re 
gret,  and  then  it  will  be  too  late  to  repair  the  injury  you 
have  done  yourself.  I'm  older  than  you,  and  I'm  wiser 
in  these  things;  and  I  tell  you  there  is  no  comfort  in  a 
life  without  belief  in  God.  Don't  think  I  want  you  to  be 
a  prude — that's  farthest  from  my  desires ;  but  I  want  you 
to  be  strong  and  upright  and  happy,  and  I  want  you  to 
do  great  things  in  the  world.  Religion  is  the  foundation 
of  all  life.  It  has  been  the  hope  and  guide  of  men  for 
centuries.  Once  you  renounce  its  security  you  will  find 
no  new  security  to  take  its  place.  Instead,  you  will  en 
counter  only  a  new  set  of  problems;  and  those  problems 
have  never  been  solved." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  boy's  knee.  "It's  only  my 
love  that  makes  me  talk  to  you  this  way.  It's  because  I 
see  these  things  more  clearly  than  you  and  know  what  is 
best  for  you.  I  want  you  to  try  to  believe  that  the  life  I 
have  planned  for  you  is  a  noble  one.  There's  a  big  work 
to  be  done,  and  it  will  take  a  big  man.  But  there's  noth 
ing  you  can't  do.  Think  over  what  I've  said,  and  don't 
ruin  your  fine  promise,  as  other  men  have  ruined  theirs, 
by  following  a  belief  which  leads  nowhere  and  has  no 
guiding  purpose." 

"Can  I  help  what  I  believe?"  The  boy  was  sullen. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  pretend  what  I  don't  really  feel? 
I've  tried  to  look  at  things  the  way  you  and  mother  do. 
It  isn't  that  I  don't  want  to,  but  I  can't.  I  wouldn't  give 
you  pain  for  anything  in  the  world,  and  I  wouldn't  give 
mother  pain.  After  I  found  out — a  long  time  ago — how 
you  took  my  beliefs,  I  kept  them  to  myself.  What  I  just 
wrote  on  the  veranda  was  the  impressions  that  came  to 
me  as  I  sat  there.  I  had  no  intention  of  showing  them 
to  any  one ;  but  mother  took  them  away  from  me  and  read 
them.  Could /help  it?" 

The  thought  of  what  had  happened  to  his  fantasy 
turned  his  sullenness  to  anger.  He  paused  a  moment, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  35 

then  broke  out :  "She  had  no  right  to  destroy  my  writ 
ing.  It  was  my  own.  For  years  I've  written  down  the 
things  I  felt,  and  I've  kept  them  all  to  myself.  They've 
been  the  only  things  that  have  given  me  any  happiness." 

He  arose  suddenly  and  took  out  his  note-book.  Its 
pages  were  nearly  all  full  of  close,  boyish  handwriting. 
He  shook  it  at  his  father  angrily. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  write  down  what  I  think  ?  It's  been 
my  only  way  of  talking  to  somebody.  When  I  went  to 
you  and  mother  you  scolded  me  and  told  me  I  was  break 
ing  your  hearts.  You  cried  because  I  didn't  agree  with 
the  things  you  believed.  You  were  always  telling  me 
what  you  had  planned  for  me,  whether  it  was  what  I 
wanted  to  do  or  not.  You  always  tried  to  influence  me 
and  make  me  think  things  I  didn't  want  to." 

The  boy  felt  an  urgent  need  to  talk,  to  formulate  into 
words  the  accusations  and  the  thoughts  which  had  been 
pent  up  in  him  for  a  year  or  more.  A  strong  impulse 
swept  him  on.  Impelled  by  his  anger,  he  arose  and 
stood  close  to  his  father. 

"You  want  me  to  do  the  same  things  you've  been  doing 
all  your  life,  and  to  believe  the  same  things,  too.  But 
why  should  I  follow  your  example  ?  Suppose  every  son 
had  followed  his  father's  example, — where  would  the 
world  be  now?  Because  your  life  satisfies  you,  it  doesn't 
follow  that  it  satisfies  me.  And  it  doesn't.  Do  you  think 
I  want  to  spend  my  days  in  this  place?  Do  you  think  I 
want  to  be  cooped  up  in  a  schoolhouse  all  my  life,  and 
never  have  any  freedom  to  do  what  I  want  to  do?  I 
couldn't  stand  such  a  life.  It  pleases  you — all  well  and 
good.  I  want  to  do  other  things,  bigger  things.  You 
said  yourself  there  wasn't  anything  I  couldn't  do.  Don't 
I  know  it?  Haven't  I  felt  it?  And  yet  you  would  tie 
me  down  to  this  place.  All  last  year  I  wanted  to  go 
somewhere  else.  I  wanted  to  see  new  people  and  visit 
new  places.  The  thought  of  spending  my  life  here  as 
you  want  me  to  is  unbearable,  and  I  don't  intend  to  do  it." 


36  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

..He  was  intoxicated  with  his  own  utterances.  His  mind 
became  clearer,  and  he  was  animated  by  a  courage  he 
never  dreamed  he  possessed.  His  anger  turned  into 
defiance.  The  things  which  heretofore  he  had  scarcely 
permitted  himself  to  think,  came  to  his  lips  unbidden.  He 
looked  down  at  his  father.  The  man's  silence  challenged 
him. 

"And  why  should  I  follow  you?"  he  burst  forth.  "Are 
you  a  great  man  ?  What  have  you  done  in  the  world  that 
I  should  mould  myself  after  you?  Have  you  ever  writ 
ten  any  great  books  or  done  any  great  things  ?  Have  you 
any  freedom?  Can  you  do  what  you  want?  No!  I 
want  to  be  a  great  man.  I  want  to  have  time  to  write — • 
yes,  that's  what  I  want." 

Without  warning  the  problem  which  had  so  long1 
perplexed  him,  became  clarified.  He  hurried  on: 

"I  want  to  be  a  writer.  You  once  asked  me  what 
my  ambition  was ;  well,  that's  what  it  is.  I  want  to  have 
freedom  to  write.  Now  you  know.  I'll  never  do  the 
things  you  want  me  to  do.  I  won't  spend  my  life  here.  I 
won't  follow  your  footsteps.  I  won't  believe  the  things 
you  and  mother  want  me  to.  I'll  do  my  own  work,  and 
I'll  think  my  own  thoughts.  And  you've  no  right  to 
stop  me,  either.  Some  day  I'll  be  greater  than  you  are. 
I'll  do  bigger  things  in  the  world.  I  don't  care  how  much 
you  tell  me  you  love  me,  or  how  much  you  try  to  win 
me  by  pity.  If  you  won't  let  me  stay  here  and  do  my 
writing,  I'll  go  away.  That's  how  much  I  care  for  what 
you  and  mother  think.  I  won't  be  hemmed  in  and  mo 
lested  by  any  of  your  narrow  ideas.  I  don't  care  how 
much  pain  I  give  you,  and  I  don't  care  how  much  you've 
counted  on  my  future.  My  life's  my  own.  I  didn't  ask 
you  to  bring  me  into  the  world,  and  I  don't  owe  you 
anything " 

He  broke  off.  Noticing  the  other's  bowed  head,  he 
became  frightened  at  his  own  words.  A  quick  reaction 
came  over  him.  He  looked  down  at  the  stricken  figure 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  37 

of  the  man  who  for  years  had  been  his  playmate,  who 
had  taken  care  of  him  and  given  him  a  great  love.  His 
father  seemed  to  have  grown  old  suddenly.  How  grey 
his  hair  was!  Something  gripped  the  boy's  throat.  He 
tried  to  master  it,  but  could  not.  His  whole  past  surged 
up  in  him.  His  eyes  became  hot,  and  he  fell  on  one  knee 
and  kissed  his  father  on  the  forehead. 

Joseph  West  rose  slowly,  feebly  like  an  old  man,  and 
put  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder. 

"You  are  my  son,"  he  said,  "and  I  shall  neither  reprove 
you  nor  desert  you.  Some  day  you'll  think  back  on  these 
words  of  yours,  and  your  remorse  will  be  your  bitterest 
punishment." 

But  the  punishment  had  already  commenced.  The  boy 
dropped  into  a  chair  and,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  wept. 


SUMMER  vacation  came  once  more.  Stanford  West, 
defeated  by  his  own  vehemence  in  his  first  battle  for 
freedom,  had  striven  to  recompense  the  suffering  he  had 
brought  upon  his  father.  His  mother,  too,  deeply 
wounded  by  the  incident,  he  had  sought  to  appease  by 
gentleness  and  solicitude.  So  careful  had  he  been  to 
counteract  the  blow  dealt  those  who  loved  him,  that  both 
his  mother  and  father  had  now,  after  three  months,  begun 
to  look  upon  the  incident  as  the  result  of  temporary  irri 
tation.  But  though  the  boy  was  outwardly  courteous 
and  resigned,  his  spirit  of  rebellion  was  far  from  sub 
dued.  His  inner  attitude  had  changed  but  little.  As  the 
weeks  went  by,  his  bitter  words  to  his  father  burned 
themselves  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  mind.  He  feared 
intuitively  that  in  the  passion  of  his  new  beliefs  he  might 
be  guilty  of  another  outburst.  This  he  would  have 
regretted  as  he  regretted  the  last  one.  Therefore  he  held 
himself  under  a  strict  discipline  of  silence,  and  applied 
himself  industriously  to  his  school-work.  He  strove 
conscientiously  to  assimilate  his  father's  point  of  view, 
although  he  had  a  presentiment  that  these  efforts  would 
be  futile. 

He  continued  to  write.  As  he  developed  fluency  of 
diction,  his  pleasure  in  self-expression  increased.  There 
constantly  came  back  to  his  mind  his  decision  to  be  a 
writer.  The  idea  had  now  begun  to  take  hold  of  him; 
he  could  not  eliminate  it  from  his  calculations.  Often  he 
caught  himself  dreaming  of  his  future  as  a  writer. 
Though  he  strove  to  put  the  idea  aside,  it  persisted  tena 
ciously  to  absorb  his  thoughts.  He  regretted  that  this 

38 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  39 

desire  should  persistently  assail  him,  for  he  had  decided 
half-heartedly  to  accept  the  future  his  father  had  pre 
scribed.  The  consequences  of  any  other  course  were  too 
appalling  to  consider.  He  had  caught  more  than  one 
glimpse  of  the  effect  which  a  counter-decision  would 
have  on  his  father.  The  vision  had  haunted  him  for 
days,  leaving  him  humble  and  resigned.  Then,  there  was 
his  mother  to  consider.  She,  even  more  than  her  hus 
band,  would  suffer  if  her  hopes  were  destroyed. 

Stanford  West  felt  the  responsibility  of  an  only  child. 
The  sorrow  which  shone  in  his  mother's  eyes  when  she 
pleaded  with  him,  left  him  helpless  to  exert  his  own  in 
dividuality.  Once  he  had  attempted  to  refute  her  argu 
ments  ;  but  her  grief  had  become  so  intense  and  the  hope 
lessness  of  her  outlook  so  poignant,  that  he  was  over 
whelmed  by  the  silent  horror  his  words  produced.  He 
had  several  talks  with  his  father,  but  they  merely  em 
phasized  the  terrible  strength  of  the  prison  love  had  built 
round  his  life.  His  attitude  therefore  had  become  one  of 
resignation.  He  grew  dispirited  when  he  thought  of  his 
future.  His  one  spontaneous  pleasure  was  his  writing 
which  now  he  was  careful  to  conceal.  Self-pity  seized 
him.  There  was  no  one  in  whom  to  confide,  and  the 
anguish  of  loneliness  overcame  him.  He  had  no  enthusi 
asm  for  his  work :  it  only  emphasized  his  isolation. 

He  was  grateful  when  the  summer  holidays  arrived. 
They  brought  with  them  a  prolonged  leisure  and  an  op 
portunity  for  relaxation  from  a  galling  routine.  He 
wrote  much — rhyme  and  blank  verse,  short  sketches  and 
longer  polemics,  stories  and  rhapsodies.  The  imaginative 
supplanted  the  merely  personal.  He  wrote  with  zest  and 
without  fatigue,  for  this  new  work  gave  him  fresh  de 
light.  But  he  was  never,  at  ease  in  his  mind.  The  press 
ing  question  of  what  would  be  his  profession  tormented 
him  constantly — all  the  more  now  that  he  had  but  one 
more  year's  schooling  at  home  before  he  would  enter  a 
university.  His  father  had  told  him  he  might  go  wher- 


40  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

ever  he  chose.  But  a  decision  was  impossible  as  long 
as  the  problem  of  his  future  remained  unsettled.  So,  as 
the  time  drew  near  when  he  would  have  to  take  a  final 
and  irrevocable  stand,  he  became  restless  and  uncertain. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  an  unexpected  influence  entered 
his  life,  one  which  was  to  put  a  new  face  on  his  outlook. 
Stanford  West  experienced  the  awakening  of  sex.  For 
over  a  year  he  had  associated  but  little  with  the  student 
body,  avoiding  instinctively  those  social  activities  in 
evitably  found  in  co-educational  institutions.  Conse 
quently  he  had  escaped  those  early  flirtations  and  pseudo- 
love  affairs  which  result  from  the  informal  side  of  school 
life.  He  preferred  his  books  and  his  writing  to  the  com 
pany  of  his  fellows,  and,  in  persuance  of  his  preference, 
had  acquired  the  reputation  of  a  recluse.  The  girls  in 
his  class  had  been  attracted  more  than  once  by  his  fine 
quiet  features;  his  reticence  they  attributed  to  bashful- 
ness.  But  his  continual  aloofness  had  brought  him  into 
unpopularity.  When  school  dances  or  excursions  were 
planned  his  name  was  always  omitted.  He  lacked  that 
gaiety  in  inconsequential  affairs  which  made  for  good- 
fellowship. 

Alice  Carlisle,  sensitive  by  temperament  and  frail  of 
physique,  was  different  both  in  details  and  essentials 
from  the  young  girls  he  had  been  accustomed  to  see  daily 
in  the  public  school.  Quiet  and  reticent  like  himself,  she 
had,  since  her  earliest  childhood,  possessed  a  diffidence 
which  rendered  her  uneasy  in  the  company  of  other  chil 
dren.  At  the  death  of  her  mother,  her  father,  a  municipal 
judge,  had  sent  her  to  a  private  school  at  the  state  capital. 
Here  the  sombreness  of  her  nature,  already  augmented 
by  her  mother's  death,  was  further  emphasized  by  strict 
and  narrow  discipline.  She  had  been  unable  to  adapt 
herself  to  the  democracy  of  boarding-school  life. 

Stanford  West  saw  her  for  the  first  time  during  the 
summer  holidays.  He  was  at  church  with  his  mother  and 
father,  and  the  girl,  then  barely  sixteen,  sat  with  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  41 

Judge  a  little  in  front  of  him.  He  could  see  her  full 
profile  against  the  clouded  glass  window.  Her  simple 
white  dress  of  batiste  clung  limply  about  her  shoulders, 
revealing  the  contour  of  her  young  breast.  A  soft  lace 
collar  fell  back  from  her  neck.  The  broad  ends  of  the 
large  bow  of  white  satin  which  surmounted  her  drooping 
leghorn  hat,  hung  down  her  back.  A  soft  reflected  light 
fell  upon  her  face  and  neck  and  filtered  through  her  light 
hair,  making  the  outline  glisten  like  silver. 

The  boy  watched  her  a  long  time.  Her  quiet  beauty 
held  him,  like  the  beauty  in  nature.  But  there  was  here 
an  added  fascination.  He  caught  himself  sympathizing 
with  her.  He  had  heard  the  Judge  tell  his  father  of  the 
girl's  sorrow  at  her  mother's  death  and  of  his  sending 
her  away  that  she  might  have  new  associations.  As  he 
watched  her  he  could  not  believe  she  had  forgotten  her 
grief;  her  serenity  was  too  grave,  her  gaze  too  wistful, 
her  mouth  too  tender.  His  own  vicissitudes  of  mind 
suddenly  became  less  important.  The  thought  of  his 
future  submerged  itself  in  a  new  and  puzzling  emotion. 

For  days  the  memory  of  her  persisted.  The  boy  found 
pleasure  in  visualizing  her  slender  features  and  in  recall 
ing  how  the  warm  light  had  shimmered  in  her  hair  and 
across  her  bare  neck.  He  wondered  when  she  would 
leave  Greenwood  to  return  to  school.  Would  he  see 
her  again  before  she  went?  He  did  not  attempt  to  ana 
lyse  this  new  and  strange  interest  which,  for  the  moment, 
had  crowded  out  the  more  serious  questionings  in  his 
mind. 

His  emotions  were  delicious,  and  he  indulged  them 
without  thought  of  their  consequences.  He  wrote  many 
poems  to  the  girl,  but  threw  them  all  away.  They  seemed 
inadequate  in  their  expression  of  the  subtle  delight  which 
called  them  forth.  In  the  early  mornings,  when  the  red 
sun  poured  over  the  white  edges  of  the  hills,  he  liked  to 
imagine  the  girl  standing  in  the  long  grass  by  the  river, 
watching  with  him  the  splendid  phenomenon  of  dawn. 


42  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

At  twilight  he  found  pleasure  in  picturing  her  at  his 
side,  silent  and  meditative.  When  he  walked  in  the  woods 
and  sat  down  to  read  from  the  lyricists  who  were  always 
with  him  these  days,  he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  have  her 
there,  that  he  might  read  aloud  to  her  and  thus  share  his 
joy  of  fine  music  and  stirring  words. 

That  he  might  realize  these  imaginings  never  occurred 
to  him.  He  knew  his  father  and  Judge  Carlisle  had  been 
friends  for  years,  but  the  thought  of  meeting  the  girl  did 
not  present  itself  to  him.  His  mind  had  long  been  accus 
tomed  to  solitude,  and  his  heart  had  long  been  fed  on 
solitary  joys.  He,  therefore,  accepted  his  emotions  as 
personal — the  result  of  his  own  self-engendered  dreams. 
He  had  hoped,  however,  that  he  might  see  her  again,  as 
he  had  seen  her  before,  from  afar  and  without  recogni 
tion.  His  dreams  of  her  were  divorced  from  all  reality. 

But  he  was  destined  to  meet  Alice  Carlisle  and  to  love 
her.  One  day  in  early  August  he  and  his  father,  long 
since  reconciled  and  held  together  by  an  even  closer  bond 
than  before,  were  crossing  the  bridge  which  led  to  the 
foot-hills  beyond  the  city.  As  he  paused,  looking  down 
the  river,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Judge  Carlisle  greet  his 
father.  Turning  he  saw  before  him  the  girl.  The  fact 
that  she  was  real  and  near  to  him  startled  him  for  a  mo 
ment.  He  did  not  know  what  he  said  when  the  Judge 
presented  him.  He  was  conscious  only  of  his  exaltation 
at  the  warm  touch  of  her  hand. 

The  two  men  walked  on  together  toward  the  foot-hill 
path,  and  the  boy  and  girl,  silent  and  embarrassed,  lin 
gered  behind.  The  ecstatic  mood  of  Stanford  West 
lasted  but  a  few  moments.  He  soon  found  himself  not 
only  able  to  talk  but  eager  to  tell  the  girl  of  his  emotions 
since  he  had  first  seen  her.  As  he  followed  the  two  men 
up  the  woodland  path  through  those  ways  he  knew  so 
well,  his  silent  companion  did  not  seem  unfamiliar  to  him. 
Too  often  had  he  thought  of  her,  as  now,  walking  with 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  43 

him  through  the  pillarettes  of  sunshine  formed  by  the 
leaves  and  branches  overhead. 

"I've  thought  of  you  many  times,"  he  heard  himself 
saying,  "since  that  Sunday  I  first  saw  you.  I've  often 
imagined  you  walking  with  me  ...  just  as  you  are  now 
.  .  .  along  this  very  path.  In  the  evenings  I've  stood 
with  you  looking  down  at  the  city  from  that  rock."  He 
pointed  to  the  hill's  summit  toward  which  his  father  and 
the  Judge,  now  far  ahead,  were  moving.  "And  in  the 
early  mornings,"  he  went  on,  "I've  stood  down  in  the 
valley  ...  in  the  fields  by  the  river,  and  .  .  .  we've 
watched  the  sun  along  the  hills.  .  „  .  Foolish,  wasn't  it  ? 
.  .  .  Yet,  I  never  took  a  walk  or  read  a  book  that  I  didn't 
try  to  think  that  you  were  with  me  .  .  .  listening  to  me." 
He  looked  up  as  if  he  doubted  the  girl's  reality.  "You 
see,  I  never  thought  I'd  meet  you.  .  .  .  Did  I  look 
startled  when  I  first  spoke  to  you?  .  .  .  You  know,  I 
never  thought  of  you  as  ...  as  real.''" 

Again  he  looked  at  the  girl,  his  heart  beating  fast. 
He  was  not  master  of  his  speech;  his  words  had  come 
involuntarily.  And  again  he  heard  his  own  voice  saying : 
"I've  written  a  great  many  things  for  you.  You  see, 
when  I  thought  of  you  it  ...  well,  it  made  me  want  to 
write."  Embarrassed,  he  laughed.  "Maybe  .  .  .  some 
day  .  .  .  I'll  show  you  a  poem  of  mine.  Then  maybe 
you'll  know  .  .  .  how  I  felt  about  you." 

Alice  Carlisle  did  not  answer.  She  glanced  up  into 
the  boy's  face  inquisitively.  His  words  frightened  her. 
Yet  she  would  not  have  had  them  otherwise,  for  they 
sent  a  pleasant  warmth  through  her.  Stanford  West  was 
unlike  the  other  boys  she  knew.  She  neither  misunder 
stood  nor  resented  what  he  said.  Her  first  instinct  had 
been  to  rebuke  his  frankness,  to  tell  him  she  did  not 
believe  him.  But  this  impulse  to  reprimand  was  over 
come  when  she  looked  in  his  eyes.  They  were  innocent 
of  all  forgery  of  sentiment;  and  her  resentment  turned 


44  THE  MAh  OF  PROMISE 

to  pleasurable  fear.  She  found  herself  secretly  hoping 
he  would  tell  her  more. 

They  had  come  to  an  opening  in  the  trees.  Below  them 
the  whole  valley  lay  revealed.  Thin  summer  mist 
shrouded  the  more  distant  hills  beyond.  The  lazy  river 
was  like  a  great  strip  of  green  glass  in  the  still  air.  The 
tall,  thick  trees  leaning  over  it  were  as  still  as  the  painted 
trees  of  a  picture.  The  fields  below  the  town  formed 
an  immense  checquerboard  of  white  and  yellow  and  pale 
green  squares.  Here  and  there  among  them  men  and 
horses,  like  black  pawns,  moved  back  and  forth  as  if 
guided  by  an  invisible  hand.  The  trees  on  the  foot-hills 
opposite  were  deep  blue-green.  So  dense  did  they  ap 
pear  that  it  seemed  as  if  one  might  walk  upon  their 
rounded  tops.  Above  them  the  cloudless  sky  was  almost 
white  with  the  early  afternoon  sunlight.  The  city  in 
the  valley  seemed  asleep.  Even  the  trees  which  nearly 
hid  the  houses  from  the  two  silent  watchers  on  the  hill, 
were  motionless.  There  was  a  faint,  far  noise  of  traffick 
ing,  but  this  was  almost  drowned  by  the  muffled  drone 
and  din  which  arose  from  the  insect  life  of  the  hills. 
Occasionally  a  bird,  braver  than  the  heat  and  stronger 
than  the  lassitude  of  summer,  sent  forth  a  shrill  call 
above  the  monotonous  hum;  but  it  only  intensified  the 
afternoon's  quietude.  The  boy  spoke  again  in  a  voice 
whose  unnaturalness  startled  him.  He  had  never  before 
put  into  words  the  things  he  felt  when  looking  down  into 
the  green  valley.  It  seemed  strange  to  him  that  he  should 
do  so  now. 

"Whenever  I  stand  here,"  he  said,  "and  watch  the  river 
and  the  hills,  I  have  a  longing  for  something  .  .  .  some 
thing — I  don't  know  what.  I  imagine  myself  flying 
away  .  .  .  out  there" — he  pointed  toward  the  horizon — 
"into  other  countries  and  having  all  kinds  of  adventures 
in  strange  cities,  with  people  I  don't  know."  He  paused 
contemplatively.  "I  get  so  restless  walking  here  in  the 
hills.  .  .  .  There's  something  awfully  sad  in  nature.  .  .  . 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  45 

Don't  you  think  so?"  He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer. 
"I  often  wish  a  Jinn  ...  or  something  .  .  .  would 
come  and  carry  me  away  on  his  back.  You  know,  maybe 
the  City  of  Brass  is  just  over  there  .  .  .  behind  those 
hills.  ...  Of  course  it  isn't,  but  when  the  sun  sets  I 
pretend  I  can  see  the  turrets  of  its  palaces  shining  through 
the  trees  .  .  .  there  on  the  hilltops."  He  laughed  again 
to  hide  his  embarrassment.  "Don't  the  hills  make  you 
sad,  too  .  .  .  you  know  what  I  mean  .  .  .  make  you 
imagine  all  kind  of  ...  of  funny  things?" 

"Sometimes,"  the  girl  answered  hesitatingly.  "But," 
she  added,  after  a  silence,  "I  love  the  hills.  I  missed 
them  terribly  .  .  .  away  at  school.  We  were  kept  in  the 
city  all  the  time  ...  I  hate  the  city.  When  I  used  to 
think  of  the  hills  and  the  river  here  it  ...  it  made  me — 
cry.  I  suppose  I  wanted  to  come  back.  But  I'm  glad 
somebody  else  feels  the  same  way.  You  know,  mother 
used  to  tell  me  I  was  funny — because  I  liked  to  be  alone. 
But  it  isn't  funny,  is  it?  .  .  .  It's  much  nicer  than  sitting 
around  with  a  lot  of  people  you  don't  like." 

They  were  nearing  the  summit.  The  boy  took  her  arm 
to  help  her  over  the  trunk  of  a  tree  which  had  fallen  across 
the  path.  He  was  startled  by  the  thrill  which  the  contact 
of  her  body  sent  through  him.  How  lonely  he  must  have 
been  in  his  previous  walks!  He  wondered  that  he  had 
not  felt  the  solitude  more.  Could  his  unknown  longing 
have  been  a  desire  for  this  slender  girl?  He  did  not  try 
to  answer  the  question.  He  only  knew  that  to-day  was 
different. 

His  thoughts  again  took  voice.  "It  doesn't  seem  the 
same  at  all  now  that  you  are  here  with  me.  I'm  not  a 
bit  lonely.  ...  I  don't  feel  that  longing  for  something. 
When  I  know  you're  seeing  the  same  things  I  am  ... 
smelling  the  same  flowers  .  .  .  watching  the  same  trees 
and  the  same  clouds,  I  feel  different  about  things.  When 
I'm  alone,  no  matter  how  wonderful  a  day  it  is,  there's 
something — well,  unsatisfactory  about  it.  I  wonder  if 


46  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

you  know  what  I  mean  ?  I  love  to  come  here  and  watch 
all  the  different  moods  of  nature ;  and  yet  ...  I  always 
want  to  tell  some  one  about  them  .  .  .  call  attention  to 
them.  No  matter  how  much  you  like  a  thing,  it  doesn't 
give  you  much  pleasure  unless  you  can  share  it.  ...  I 
suppose  that's  why  I  liked  to  imagine  you  were  always 
with  me,  after  I  saw  you  in  church.  The  thought  that 
you  were  sharing  all  my  emotions  made  me  feel  .  .  . 
more  comfortable.  It's  the  same  way  with  my  thoughts 
and  the  things  I  write.  I  always  want  to  tell  someone 
what's  in  my  mind.  Why,  I  never  finish  writing  anything 
that  I  don't  feel  like  showing  it  to  some  one.  My  mother 
and  father  don't  seem  to  understand  the  things  I  think, 
or  like  what  I  write.  I  think  the  reason  I  liked  you  so 
much  when  I  saw  you  was  because  I  felt  I  could  tell  you 
things  without  having  you  misunderstand  them." 

He  was  trying  to  account  for  the  unusual  fascination 
of  the  girl.  When  he  thought  aloud  he  found  that  his 
thoughts  came  more  clearly. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  "I've  seen  lots  of  girls  at 
school,  but  I  never  felt  toward  them  the  way  I  feel  toward 
you.  I  never  used  to  give  them  a  second  thought;  and 
yet  I've  thought  about  you  all  the  time — and  never  knew 
why.  .  .  .  Now  I  never  want  to  come  up  here  in  the  hills 
again  unless  you  come  with  me.  Tell  me;  does  it  make 
any  difference  to  you  to  have  me  here  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  The  girl's  tone  was  guarded  and 
evasive. 

Stanford  West  glanced  at  her  in  silence;  then  looked 
down.  Her  answer  abashed  him.  His  cheeks  burned 
suddenly. 

"Of  course  it  wasn't  right  for  me  to  think — you  felt 
the  same."  He  spoke  like  one  apologizing  for  an  inad 
vertent  misdemeanour.  "It  was  foolish.  .  .  .  I — I'm 
sorry." 

His  words  hurt  her  with  a  new  kind  of  pang.  She 
was  unhappy,  not  knowing  why.  She  realized  her  words 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  47 

had  pained  him  and  she  wanted  to  comfort  him.  But 
how  was  she  to  go  about  it?  She  felt  herself  more  a 
woman  at  that  moment  than  ever  before.  Something 
prompted  her  to  say:  "I  didn't  mean  what  I  said.  It 
does  seem  different  to  have  some  one  with  me.  I  think 
...  I  almost  feel  the  way  you  do." 

She  was  frightened  at  herself,  at  her  own  emotions. 
Had  she  said  too  much?  What  would  be  the  conse 
quences  of  her  words?  She  wished  her  father  were  not 
so  far  ahead.  She  was  treading  new  ground,  and  the 
way  was  strange  to  her. 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to-morrow?"  she  heard  the 
boy  asking.  'Til  bring  a  book  and  read  to  you."  And 
she  heard  herself  say,  "I'm  afraid  I  can't."  But  when 
the  boy  persisted,  asking  her  why  she  could  not  come, 
she  had  no  answer  to  give.  Finally  she  promised  to  meet 
him  on  the  bridge  the  following  afternoon.  But  that 
night,  as  she  lay  awake  wondering  at  the  events  of  the 
day,  she  decided  it  would  be  best  for  her  not  to  go.  Then 
the  faint  light  in  the  room  became  blurred.  She  knew 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Was  it  her  decision  which 
had  brought  them? 

The  next  day,  however,  she  kept  her  appointment. 
And  many  times  thereafter  during  the  ensuing  weeks  she 
came  to  the  bridge  where  Stanford  West  was  waiting. 
Sometimes  they  walked  through  the  wooded  hills.  Other 
days  they  took  the  river  path  by  the  wheat  fields.  Nearly 
always  the  boy,  having  brought  with  him  a  book,  read  to 
her  from  the  poets.  Not  infrequently  he  read  her  verses 
he  himself  had  written.  These,  she  always  told  him,  she 
liked  the  best. 

Stanford  West,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was  wholly 
happy.  The  uncertainty  of  his  future  never  occupied  his 
thoughts.  His  interest  in  the  girl  absorbed  him  entirely. 
Mornings  and  evenings  he  was  busy  writing.  That  he 
now  had  a  sympathetic  listener  sent  him  to  his  task  with 
new  interest.  The  pleasure  of  reading  his  compositions 


48  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

to  the  girl  was  nearly  as  great  as  his  pleasure  in  writing 
them.  The  hours  of  simple  and  youthful  joy  he  spent 
with  her  changed  his  melancholy  nature  to  one  bordering 
on  exuberance.  He  found  himself  looking  with  com 
parative  contentment  on  the  plans  his  father  had  for  his 
future.  Greenwood  itself  had  changed.  He  began  to 
love  its  quiet.  He  lived  in  the  ecstasy  of  the  present,  for 
getting  even  that  when  the  autumn  came  the  girl  would 
go  away,  and  that  he  would  have  to  submit  again  to  the 
brusque  routine  of  study.  The  brief  raptures  of  his  after 
noons  were  too  keen  for  thoughts  of  future  distress. 


VI 

THE  summer  went  quickly.  Stanford  West  was  in 
love  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  strong  and  active  soul.  It 
was  the  love  of  adolescence,  which  questions  not  nor 
looks  ahead,  which  finds  contentment  in  the  moment,  and 
is  without  the  foretaste  of  sorrow.  His  passion  for  Alice 
Carlisle  was  spontaneous  and  unanalytical.  He  did  not 
admit  to  himself  that  he  was  in  love.  He  knew  only 
that  with  her  he  was  contented  and  happy,  and  that  when 
the  summer  rains  kept  them  from  their  walks  he  was 
depressed  and  disconsolate.  His  only  pleasure  was  in 
being  with  her,  in  watching  the  graceful  movements  of 
her  hands,  in  hearing  her  talk,  in  seeing  her  lithe  body 
climbing  the  steep  paths  of  the  hills.  He  was  unaware 
of  the  sex  appeal  in  all  her  supple  movements.  His  desire 
for  her  was  translated  into  tenderness.  When  he  touched 
her  he  was  unaware  that  his  emotion  was  the  result  of 
physical  longing. 

Dispelled  were  his  qualms  regarding  a  profession.  He 
wondered  that  he  could  have  considered  seriously  so  un 
important  a  question.  The  problem  would  no  doubt  solve 
itself  and  he  was  content  to  await  eventualities.  His 
future,  heretofore  so  imminent,  had  receded  far  into  the 
distance  of  the  impending  years.  He  no  longer  viewed 
life  with  apprehension :  there  was  no  need  for  immediacy 
in  making  a  decision.  As  for  his  personal  beliefs,  he  was 
willing  to  capitulate  in  favour  of  his  parents.  After  all, 
beliefs  were  of  minor  importance.  Now,  more  than 
ever,  he  regretted  his  past  conduct.  He  had  deeply  pained 
his  father  and  mother  by  insisting  on  a  point  of  no  value. 
His  attitude  had  been  petty.  Never  again  would  he 

49 


50  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

wound  them  with  trivialities.  His  former  ambition  to 
attain  to  greatness  appeared  extravagant.  He  was  not 
a  little  ashamed  of  it,  and  refrained  from  mentioning  it 
again.  How  young  he  must  have  been  to  voice  so  fan 
tastic  a  belief  in  himself !  How  little  he  had  understood 
himself  and  his  desires !  How  ungratefully  he  had  acted 
toward  those  who  loved  him ! 

A  mellow  contentment  has  supplanted  his  unrest.  His 
belligerent  vitality  of  mind  had  subsided  to  genial  acqui 
escence.  His  questioning  curiosity  toward  life  and 
its  mysteries — a  curiosity  which  had  made  him  avid  for 
knowledge,  driving  him  into  himself  for  days — had  been 
replaced  by  an  uneager  attitude.  He  now  accepted  natu 
ral  and  social  manifestations  as  spectacular  panoramas 
without  meaning  or  significance.  His  fine  ardour  for 
the  world  of  science  and  research  had  dwindled  into  un 
concern.  His  high  aspirations,  which  had  at  once  ex 
alted  and  depressed  him,  had  faded  before  his  more 
tangible  and  intimate  adoration  for  Alice  Carlisle.  In 
the  presence  of  the  influence  she  exercised  over  him,  he 
had  not  strength  to  adhere  to  his  former  aggressive  role. 
He  did  not  care  to  dominate  his  surroundings.  His  in 
dependence  and  vindictiveness  had  been  vanquished  by 
softer  impulses.  He  surveyed  the  world  through  the 
coloured  glasses  of  romanticism.  He  read  the  love  songs 
of  minor  poets,  and  wrote  dolorous  verses  of  youthful 
passion. 

September  came  and  with  it  the  first  realization  of  sep 
aration.  He  and  the  girl  had  spent  the  day  on  an  island 
below  the  city's  outskirts.  They  had  boated  down  the 
river  in  the  early  morning  while  the  mist  still  covered  the 
hilltops.  In  the  long  wild  grass  by  the  water  they  had  set 
table  and  lunched.  All  day  the  sun  had  been  covered  with 
haze,  and  the  diffused  grey  light,  like  an  artificial  dusk, 
had  affected  their  spirits.  They  had  read  half-heartedly 
to  each  other  at  first,  but  during  the  afternoon  the  silences 
between  them  were  long.  A  chill  evening  wind  moved 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  51 

the  grass  about  them  and  shook  the  trees  overhead.  Twi 
light  came  an  hour  early,  bringing  with  it  the  first  breath 
of  approaching  autumn.  On  a  steep  bank  above  the  grey- 
green  water  the  boy  and  girl  sat  close  together,  as  if  for 
shelter  against  the  cool  approach  of  night.  Below  them 
the  boat  waited,  but  each  was  loath  to  suggest  it  was  time 
to  return.  Shadows  were  settling  in  the  trees  behind 
them,  and  the  hills  beyond  were  turning  a  deep  blue- 
violet. 

"To  think  that  in  another  week  I  won't  be  here."  The 
girl's  voice  was  little  more  than  a  whisper.  "I've  loved 
this  summer." 

Then  for  the  first  time  Stanford  West  became  con 
scious  of  the  transitoriness  of  his  joy.  The  realization 
of  its  evanescence  struck  him  with  tragic  force.  He  had 
thrown  himself  into  this  new  experience  with  all  the  pas 
sion  of  a  rash  and  impetuous  nature.  He  had  lived  each 
day  without  thought  of  the  morrow,  content  with  what 
it  had  to  give.  Faced  by  the  dissolution  of  his  romance, 
he  saw  the  future  loom  black  and  chaotic.  He  pictured 
the  coming  winter  with  its  long  routine  of  laborious 
study.  The  thought  stunned  him. 

The  girl  misunderstood  his  silence.  She  had  vaguely 
expected  him  to  answer  by  an  expression  of  personal 
grief  at  their  nearing  separation.  His  quiet  piqued  her. 

"Of  course  it  won't  matter  to  you,"  she  said  in  a 
strained  voice.  "You  will  stay  here  with  the  people  you 
know.  .  .  .  That  makes  all  the  difference." 

The  boy  shook  himself  free  from  his  vision  of  the 
coming  years. 

"It  will  matter  to  me."  As  he  spoke  he  found  it  diffi 
cult  to  restrain  his  excitement.  "And  I  think  you  know 
just  how  much  it  will  matter,  too.  .  .  .  What  differ 
ence  will  the  people  I  know  make?  And  what  comfort 
will  my  home  be  after  you  have  gone  away?  I've  never 
been  so  happy  in  all  my  life  as  I've  been  with  you.  I've 
always  been  lonely  for  some  one,  and  when  you're  gone 


52  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

I'll  be  lonelier  than  ever.  ...  I  can't  bear  to  think  of 
the  winter.  ...  I  hate  the  people  here  and  I  hate  the  place. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  I  think  I  should  have  run  away. 
Ever  since  I  saw  you  I've  dreamed  of  nothing  else  but 
you.  I've  only  lived  for  the  afternoons  when  we've  been 
together.  I  haven't  wanted  anything  else  in  the  world 
except  to  be  with  you,  and  I  don't  know  what  I'm  going 
to  do  when  I  can't  see  you.  When  you  said  you'd  be  gone 
in  another  week,  it  was  like  .  .  .  well,  like  having 
some  one  take  me  by  the  throat  and  strangle  me  ... 
I've  been  so  happy  with  you  ...  I  never  thought  the 
time  would  come  when  we  couldn't  be  together.  I  had 
a  notion  the  summer  would  go  on  forever.  Just  now — 
when  I  thought  of  the  future  without  you — everything 
got  black  before  my  eyes.  I  used  to  worry  about  my  fu 
ture  and  rebel  against  my  father's  plans  for  me;  but 
after  I  had  you  I  didn't  care  what  I'd  become.  I  didn't 
think  of  anything  else  but  you.  Nothing  seemed  to  mat 
ter  except  being  with  you.  Whenever  I  wrote  anything, 
I  always  thought  of  you  and  of  what  you  would  say 
when  I  read  it  to  you.  .  .  .  And  then  you  say  it  won't 
matter  to  me  when  you  go.  ...  It  will  matter — more 
than  anything  else  in  my  life." 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  to  her  knees  and  took  her 
hand  from  his.  "You  .  .  .  mustn't  say  those  things." 
Frightened,  she  tried  to  speak  coolly,  but  her  voice  trem 
bled.  "It  isn't  right  to  talk  that  way.  I  know  you'll 
care  when  I'm  gone — that's  natural.  We've  been  such 
good  friends.  I've  loved  having  you  talk  to  me  and 
read  to  me  .  .  .  and  I  appreciate  your  showing  me 
the  things  you  wrote.  But  you  shouldn't  have  said  the 
things  you  did.  You  know  you  didn't  mean  them. 
When  school  opens  again  you'll  be  busy,  and  you'll  forget 
all  about  me  .  .  .just  as  I'll  forget  about  you.  So 
don't  say  any  more  foolish  things  and — and  make  me 
sorry  I  ever  saw  you." 

The  boy  turned.    His  old  self -assert  iveness  came  back. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  53 

He  had  been  thwarted,  and  he  felt  defiant,  as  in  the 
first  bitter  interview  with  his  father.  "You  may  forget 
me,"  he  said  almost  harshly,  "but  I'll  never  forget  you. 
I've  never  cared  for  any  one  before.  No  one  has  ever 
meant  anything  to  me ;  I've  been  alone  all  my  life.  I  was 
happy  after  I  met  you — you  changed  everything.  I  don't 
want  your  thanks  for  having  read  and  talked  to  you. 
I  did  it  because  I  wanted  to — more  than  anything  else." 
He  rose  to  his  feet.  "Yes  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  why  I 
did  it.  I  did  it  ...  because  I  loved  you.  .  .  .  I'm 
not  such  a  child  as  you  think.  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you 
always  to  remember  it.  I  love  you!  .  .  .  You  won't 
forget  me  after  I  tell  you  that.  I've  loved  you  from 
the  first  time  I  saw  you  .  .  .  although  I  don't  believe 
I  knew  it  till  this  minute.  I  suppose  .  .  .  I've  only 
amused  you.  But  it  will  be  the  last  time."  He  shook 
his  finger  at  her  angrily. 

Suddenly,  as  in  his  talk  with  his  father,  his  anger  re 
acted.  Tenderness  overcame  him.  He  put  his  hands  to 
his  face  and  turned  away,  that  the  girl  might  not  see  the 
tears  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 

While  he  had  been  talking,  the  girl  had  arisen  and 
retreated  from  him,  terrified.  But  she  had  not  resented 
his  words.  To  the  contrary,  they  had  thrilled  her.  And 
when  she  saw  him  turn  away,  she  was  no  longer  fright 
ened.  All  sense  of  danger  vanished.  She  came  toward 
him,  calling  him  very  low  by  name.  Then  she  said,  "I'm 
sorry  I  said  what  I  did.  .  .  .  I — didn't  mean  it.  I 
knew  all  the  time  .  .  .  you  loved  me." 

Turning,  he  looked  at  her.  Her  head  was  bowed. 
Wondering,  he  approached  tentatively,  as  a  child  ap 
proaches  a  toy  of  new  and  terrible  aspect,  desiring  yet 
fearful.  His  hand  reached  out  and  touched  her  arm, 
and  moved  slowly  to  her  shoulder.  He  drew  her  to  him, 
panic-stricken  at  his  own  audacity.  Had  she  resisted 
he  would  have -ceased  and  tried  to  apologize.  But  she 
did  not  resist,  and  in  a  second  her  body  was  held  tight 


54  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

against  his.  She  raised  her  head,  her  hair  brushing  his 
cheek.  Their  lips  met,  trembling  upon  each  other's. 

Muted  by  the  memory  of  their  first  kiss,  they  rowed 
slowly  back  to  the  city  where  the  early  street  lights  were 
already  glowing  dully  in  the  blue  twilight. 

If  hitherto  there  had  existed  the  slightest  antagonism 
between  Stanford  West's  ideas  and  those  of  his  father, 
it  would  now  have  given  way  to  a  complete  concurrence. 
Life  was  full.  Since  he  knew  his  love  for  Alice  Carlisle 
was  returned,  he  had  no  ambitions  for  a  literary  career 
in  strange  cities.  The  adventuresomeness  of  his  nature, 
which  had  made  him  long  for  perilous  conquests  beyond 
the  quiet  confines  of  Greenwood,  had  departed  from  him. 
He  became  conservative.  The  risks  of  failure  in  a  life 
which  aimed  too  high  took  on  a  threatening  aspect.  He 
no  longer  regarded  himself  as  alone.  Single-handed  he 
would  gladly  have  faced  the  vicissitudes  and  failures  im 
minent  in  the  life  of  his  former  choice.  In  time  he  could 
have  conquered  them.  But  now  it  was  different;  there 
was  some  one  else  to  consider.  His  failure  or  misfortune 
would  not  fall  only  upon  himself ;  they  would  affect  the 
girl  as  well.  The  instinct  of  protection,  heretofore  dor 
mant,  subtly  but  inexorably  influenced  his  outlook.  He 
admitted  to  himself,  without  argument,  the  advisability 
of  his  father's  plans. 

Thrice  more  he  saw  Alice  Carlisle  before  she  went 
away.  Three  days  of  rain  added  to  the  depression  of 
the  young  lovers.  The  parting  was  painful.  Their  last 
day  together  was  grey  and  cold.  Standing  close  to  each 
other  on  a  summit  of  the  hills  they  trembled,  partly 
because  of  the  chill  wind.  All  the  afternoon  their  de 
pression  had  silenced  them.  On  the  morrow  the  girl 
would  be  gone.  They  were  both  children,  and  they  both 
cried  as  they  looked  down  on  the  sunless  valley.  When 
darkness  began  to  gather  they  clung  to  each  other  hope 
lessly.  Their  present  was  so  meagre ;  their  future  so  vast. 
They  both  had  premonitions  of  disaster. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  55 

"I  shall  always  love  you,  Stanford."  Her  words  were 
broken  by  sobs.  "I  shall  never  love  any  one  but  you.  I 
shall  think  of  you  every  minute  we're  apart.  ...  I  shall 
love  you  forever  and  forever." 

The  boy  said :  "No  one  else  can  ever  come  into  my 
life  .  .  .  no  matter  what  happens  to  you.  I  shall  love 
you,  too,  forever  and  forever." 

Their  kisses  were  wet  with  their  tears.  They  walked 
down  the  hill  path  in  the  semi-dark,  their  arms  about 
each  other.  Both  were  suffering  deeply.  It  was  the 
first  tragedy  of  their  lives.  Because  they  were  so  young 
they  believed  they  had  sounded  the  depths  of  grief. 

That  winter  Stanford  West  entered  upon  his  school 
tasks  with  an  enthusiasm  which  astonished  his  masters. 
With  the  advice  of  his  father  he  had  planned  a  vast  pro 
gramme  of  study  comprising  those  things  he  would 
most  need  to  carry  on  the  work  of  his  prescribed  future. 
He  permitted  himself  little  freedom.  He  did  not  allow 
his  personal  writings  to  interfere  with  his  duties  as  a 
student.  Sundays  and  holidays  he  read  books  his  father 
selected.  Over  his  actions,  and  even  over  his  thoughts, 
he  exercised  a  strict,  self-imposed  censorship.  Some 
times  his  old  desires  arose  in  him  and  disturbed  his  equa 
nimity.  Freed  from  the  immediate  influence  of  Alice 
Carlisle,  his  poetic  and  adventurous  soul  would  rebel  oc 
casionally  against  the  pacific  tenor  of  his  plans;  but 
shortly  after  he  would  resign  himself  and  bow  beneath 
the  discipline.  He  dreamed  of  greater  vistas  of  action 
than  his  future  held,  but  went  no  further  than  a  dream. 
The  power  that  the  girl  exerted  over  him,  though  en 
feebled  by  her  absence,  was  potent  enough  to  hold  him 
to  the  path  of  his  resolution.  The  memory  of  her  words 
as  she  clung  to  him  at  parting  made  it  easy  for  him  to 
endure  this  new  life  of  submission  to  external  dictates. 

Spring  came  once  more  and  mellowed  into  summer. 
Stanford  West  passed  his  final  examinations  with  hon 
our.  He  had  worked  hard,  allowing  nothing  to  distract 


56  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

him  from  the  pursuit  of  his  studies.  Ere  the  holidays  ar 
rived  he  had  mastered  all  those  disquieting  ambitions 
which  tended  to  turn  his  mind  into  larger  fields  of  en 
deavour.  He  wrote  regularly  to  Alice  Carlisle — long 
letters  about  his  future  plans  and  the  progress  he  was 
making.  Her  letters  to  him  steadied  and  assuaged  him. 
She  was  glad  he  was  doing  well.  She  knew  he  would  be 
an  honour  to  his  father.  She  felt  he  was  capable  of  car 
rying  on  the  work  his  father  wanted  him  to  do.  She  was 
happy  over  his  prospects.  Some  day  she  would  be  proud 
of  him. 

The  boy  was  encouraged  by  her  solicitude.  It  went 
far  in  bringing  about  his  contentment  of  mind.  Once  he 
had  written,  complaining  of  his  prescribed  future.  He 
intimated  that  he  was  not  entirely  happy,  and  raised  the 
possibility  of  his  entering  upon  a  broader  sphere  of  ac 
tion.  But  she  straightway  answered,  reproving  him  for 
his  dissatisfaction.  She  urged  him  to  do  all  his  father 
demanded,  telling  him  that  it  was  best  and  that  her  hap 
piness  depended  upon  his  adhesion  to  his  present  course. 
The  letter  dissipated  the  boy's  doubts,  and  he  forged  on 
with  renewed  spirit. 

All  winter  Stanford  West  looked  forward  to  the  sum 
mer  which  would  bring  him  again  the  girl's  companion 
ship.  In  the  latter  part  of  May,  the  holidays  but  a  few 
weeks  off,  his  mind  was  filled  with  dreams  of  her.  The 
subtle  joy  of  anticipation  filled  all  his  waking  hours.  It 
sent  him  about  his  tasks  with  a  light  heart.  When  his 
periods  of  expectancy  were  the  keenest  he  found  himself 
breathing  fast  and  felt  his  face  flush.  His  emotion  was 
exquisite,  and  he  wondered  at  it,  for  it  was  new  and 
poignant  beyond  any  other  he  had  ever  felt. 

But  the  summer  held  little  of  joy  in  store  for  him. 
Judge  Carlisle  went  to  Europe  for  the  holidays,  taking 
his  daughter  with  him.  Stanford  West  saw  her  ^but 
twice  before  she  departed,  and  even  these  two  visits 
were  spoiled  by  his  melancholy.  By  the  time  she  would 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  -57 

come  back  in  the  autumn,  preparatory  to  returning  to 
school,  he  himself  would  be  gone.  His  sorrow  was  too 
bitter  for  him  to  accept  it  philosophically.  He  suffered 
for  weeks,  and  nothing  would  console  him.  The  fresh 
memory  of  her  words  and  kisses  made  his  anguish  more 
stinging  than  if  she  had  gone 'without  seeing  him. 

Then  one  day,  returning  from  the  hills,  he  went  direct 
to  his  room  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  Myriad  impres 
sions  assailed  him,  and  his  old  desire  to  write  fired  him 
like  a  powerful  drug.  For  hours  he  wrote  with  an  in 
tensity  only  possible  after  long  privation.  This  time  he 
did  not  write  personal  impressions  or  disconnected  frag 
ments  setting  forth  his  moods  and  emotions.  He  felt 
a  desire  to  accomplish  something  which  he  might  give  to 
the  world,  something  creative  and  imaginative,  some 
thing  in  which  feeling  and  taste  would  preside  over  the 
mere  manual  execution.  The  instinct  of  the  artist  and 
creator  mingled  with  his  instinct  for  self-expression.  He 
wrote  rapidly.  By  dark  he  was  well  launched  upon  a 
drama  of  antiquity  in  classical  form,  a  drama  in  which 
Nero  was  the  principal  figure,  that  monarch  being  depicted 
as  a  great  artist,  bored  with  omnipotence  and  vainly  seek 
ing  an  outlet  for  his  hectic  dreams.  The  burning  of 
Rome  was  but  a  means  of  appeasing  his  gigantic  vision. 
The  drama  was  for  the  most  part  in  blank  verse.  Some 
times  in  the  choruses  rhyme  appeared.  But  the  lyrical 
impulse  was  constantly  abandoned :  the  young  poet  merely 
followed  it  when  it  came  uppermost.  It  was  supplanted 
occasionally  by  irregular  metre,  sometimes  by  prose. 

The  work  was  not  without  power,  and  Stanford  West 
felt  it.  The  next  day  he  returned  to  it  with  renewed  en 
ergy.  For  a  week  he  followed  the  inspiration,  overjoyed 
with  his  new  accomplishment.  When  his  task  was  com 
pleted  it  marked  a  new  epoch  in  the  boy's  life. 

Exhilarated,  he  showed  the  work  to  his  mother  and 
father.  He  was  stunned  at  their  attitude  toward  it. 
While  writing  he  had  been  unconscious  of  perpetrating 


58  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

a  sacrilege.  Its  form  and  composition  alone  had  ap 
pealed  to  him.  He  had  taken  little  thought  of  his  subject. 
He  was  therefore  shocked  at  his  father's  harsh  words  and 
at  his  mother's  wounded  feelings.  "You  have  talent," 
his  father  told  him.  "Why  do  you  turn  it  into  such  chan 
nels?  Are  there  so  few  worthy  subjects  in  the  world 
that  you  must  use  your  gifts  in  defending  an  ignoble 
cause?"  And  his  mother  said  to  him:  "Your  ideas 
make  me  very  unhappy.  I  know  there  is  power  for  good 
in  you,  and  I  want  to  see  it  come  out.  It  breaks  my  heart 
that  you  should  write  such  things.  I  hope  you  will  never 
know  what  it  means  to  have  a  child  you  love  turn  against 
you." 

The  boy  did  not  entirely  understand.  He  could  not 
see  that  his  unhappiness  was  due  to  the  clash  of  two 
different  viewpoints.  So  deeply  offended  were  his  mother 
and  father,  so  earnestly  did  they  plead  with  him,  that  he 
began  to  question  himself,  afraid  lest,  after  all,  the  fault 
lay  with  him.  He  strove  to  look  at  the  world  through 
their  eyes,  and  while  striving  thus,  he  wrote  many  things 
embodying  his  insincerities.  He  knew  these  efforts  were 
inept  and  worthless,  for  he  had  forced  himself  to  write 
them  and  the  task  had  given  him  no  pleasure.  When 
they  met  with  commendation  he  was  confused  and  unable 
to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of  the  situation. 

So  the  summer  went.  Those  of  his  writings  he  liked 
most  gave  pain  to  his  parents :  those  from  which  he  re 
ceived  no  pleasurable  reaction  met  with  approval  and 
encouragement.  Many  times  he  was  on  the  point  of  de 
fending  himself,  but  he  recalled  the  unhappiness  such  a 
course  had  produced  in  the  past.  He  recalled  also  the 
letters  of  Alice  Carlisle.  She  would  not  have  upheld 
him.  He  felt  that  certain  of  his  writings  would  offend 
her  also.  Accordingly  he  refrained  from  any  open 
conflict,  half  convinced  of  the  error  of  his  own  attitude. 
But  he  felt  the  restraint,  and  inwardly  revolted.  He 
could  not  entirely  overcome  his  ingrained  self-confidence. 


VII 

THE  time  was  drawing  near  when  he  would  enter  upon 
his  collegiate  work.  His  father  had  assisted  him  in  his 
choice  of  an  institution.  It  was  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  conservative  in  the  country  and  specialized  in  those 
branches  of  the  liberal  arts  which  he  would  most  need 
for  his  future  as  a  pedagogue.  Furthermore,  two  of  the 
Professors  in  the  courses  he  was  likely  to  take  had  been 
school-mates  of  his  father.  Joseph  West  wrote  to  them 
both,  telling  them  of  his  son  and  asking  them  to  keep  an 
eye  on  the  boy.  Professor  Bainbridge,  of  the  department 
of  ancient  languages,  offered  to  assist  the  son  of  his  old 
friend  in  finding  quarters  and  in  meeting  the  preliminary 
difficulties  of  his  new  environment.  Stanford  West's 
entry  had  already  been  arranged  for  with  the  board  of 
administration.  It  had  accepted  the  certificates  of  his 
graduation,  thereby  permitting  him  to  enter  without  pre 
liminary  examinations. 

The  boy  contemplated  with  no  little  satisfaction  this 
new  step.  He  believed  it  would  afford  him  the  freedom 
he  desired.  He  had  never  been  master  of  his  own  actions, 
even  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  he  saw  in  the  University  a 
welcome  outlet.  He  would  write  what  he  desired;  he 
would  express  his  ideas  without  fear  of  unpleasant  con 
sequences.  He  believed  he  would  find  others  who,  like 
himself,  had  chafed  at  the  restrictions  of  home  life,  and 
who  would  understand  him,  as  he  would  understand  them. 
He  realized  now  that  he  needed  the  companionship  of 
some  one  in  whom  he  might  confide ;  in  such  an  exchange 
of  confidences  he  was  sure  to  receive  stimulation.  He 
looked  forward  with  joyous  anticipation  to  these  un 
known  friends  awaiting  him  at  the  University. 

59 


60  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Confronted  thus  by  the  possibility  of  intimate  com 
radeship,  his  memories  of  Alice  Carlisle  became  less  ap 
pealing.  How  inadequately  he  had  spoken  to  her  regard 
ing  his  true  self !  How  little  indeed  she  would  have  un 
derstood  his  unusual  beliefs!  He  recalled  his  conversa 
tions  with  her:  they  had  been  devoid  of  all  genuine  ex 
pressions  of  opinion  on  his  part.  Even  the  verses  he 
wrote  for  her  had  been  limited  by  his  consideration  for 
her  tastes.  He  realized  that  had  she  been  with  him  this 
last  summer  he  probably  would  not  have  written  many 
of  the  things  he  did — things  which  he  knew  constituted 
his  best  work.  As  he  visualized  the  world  into  which  he 
was  about  to  enter,  the  world  he  was  leaving  behind,  as 
well  as  its  people,  appeared  small  and  inconsequent  by 
comparison. 

His  day  of  departure  found  him  in  a  buoyant  frame  of 
mind,  and  he  took  leave  of  Greenwood  without  regret. 
His  parting  was  not  without  its  unpleasantness,  however. 
His  mother's  tears,  his  father's  tense  face,  the  admoni 
tions,  the  expressions  of  hope,  the  pleadings  and  the  in 
junctions — all  this  affected  him.  He  had  no  intention 
of  heeding  his  parents'  warnings.  He  knew  he  would 
not  fulfil  their  hopes  in  the  manner  they  wished.  His 
previous  resolutions  had  defeated  their  parting  prayers. 
He  had  decided  to  make  use  of  his  life  at  the  University 
according  to  his  own  doctrines.  For  years  he  had  craved 
freedom.  Now  that  it  was  within  his  grasp,  he  intended 
to  turn  it  to  his  own  ends.  He  felt  no  sorrow  at  parting, 
and  was  ashamed  at  his  indifference  in  the  face  of  the 
undisguised  grief  of  his  mother  and  father.  Out  of 
pity  for  them  he  pretended  sorrow ;  and  his  dramatic  mas 
querade  of  emotion  filled  him  with  a  sense  of  guilt. 

As  the  train  moved  away,  he  was  conscious  of  the  sud 
den  enjoyment  of  complete  liberty.  His  mood  was  gay, 
almost  irresponsible.  The  country-side  and  the  hills  of 
his  childhood  fell  far  behind  without  his  experiencing  the 
least  impression  of  pain.  It  exhilarated  him  to  think  he 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  61 

was  escaping  from  them.  Only  when  he  called  to  mind 
his  days  with  Alice  Carlisle  did  he  feel  the  intimacy  of 
the  environment  he  was  leaving.  The  other  memories 
of  his  youth — his  solitary  walks,  his  hours  of  writing, 
his  early  passion  for  music  and  poetry — these  did  not 
touch  him  or  make  him  wish  to  turn  back.  They  were 
too  closely  associated  with  the  binding  influences  of  his 
home  life.  Through  the  fabric  of  his  boyhood  dreams 
obtruded  the  ugly  angles  of  parental  restraint.  He  was 
escaping,  like  a  fugitive,  from  a  life  which  stifled  him. 
Even  the  rain  which  began  to  fall  in  the  early  afternoon 
and  blotted  out  the  world  beyond,  failed  to  oppress  him. 
He  was  rushing  forward  into  a  life  of  illimitable  oppor 
tunities  and  boundless  freedom,  and  the  thought  made 
him  radiant. 

At  Cambridge  West  went  direct  to  the  house  of  Pro 
fessor  Bainbridge.  The  latter  was  a  tall,  elderly  man, 
slightly  stooped,  with  the  deep,  resonant  voice  of  a  pro 
fessional  orator.  He  greeted  West  with  distant  geniality, 
and  expatiated  on  the  ideals  of  the  University.  Finally 
he  advised  the  young  man  to  seek  quarters  in  one  of  the 
dormitories.  There  he  would  be  in  close  touch  with  his 
fellows :  he  would  constitute  an  integral  part  of  the  stu 
dent  life. 

"I  believe  in  boys  entering  fully  into  the  undergradu 
ate  activities,"  he  said.  "Too  much  work  and  isolation, 
like  too  much  diversion,  is  bad.  If  you  live  in  a  private 
house  in  the  city,  you  are  liable  to  fall  into  one  of  these 
two  bad  habits.  You  will  either  get  too  little  recreation — 
or  too  much.  The  life  of  the  dormitories  balances 
things." 

West  thanked  him  and  departed.  He  did  not  intend 
to  put  himself  under  the  jurisdiction  of  the  University 
authorities;  and  he  did  not  desire  to  participate  in  the 
student  life.  These  points  he  had  settled  in  his  mind  long 
before.  He  wished  to  be  alone  and  did  not  fear  the 
consequences  of  such  a  course.  He  was  not  sufficiently 


62  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

democratic  to  care  to  impose  upon  himself  the  obligation 
of  promiscuous  companionship.  He  desired  but  few 
friends,  and  these  he  intended  to  choose  carefully. 
Conscious  of  the  richness  of  his  future,  he  looked  upon 
his  first  steps  as  important.  Though  impatient  to  meet 
his  contemporaries,  he  feared  lest  he  might  unwillingly 
be  drawn  into  a  social  milieu  uncongenial  to  him.  He 
deemed  his  safest  course  lay  in  a  temporary  withdrawal 
from  his  fellows.  Thus  from  a  place  apart  he  could  judge 
and  select. 

The  following  day  he  found  a  pleasant  room  in  a  quiet 
shaded  street  in  Arlington  Heights,  ten  minutes'  walk 
from  the  campus.  The  house  in  which  he  was  installed 
was  an  old-fashioned  structure  owned  by  two  elderly 
sisters  of  simple  and  devout  habits.  There  was  but  one 
boarder  beside  himself,  a  serious  young  man  absorbed 
in  post-graduate  work.  West's  room  was  large  and  well 
equipped  for  study.  It  had  two  wide  windows,  a  desk 
with  a  student  lamp,  some  book-shelves,  a  small  bed  and 
two  comfortable  chairs. 

"I  could  wish  for  nothing  better,"  he  wrote  home. 
"The  meals  are  simple  but  excellent;  the  outlook  from 
my  windows  is  as  peaceful  as  if  I  were  in  Greenwood.  I 
feel  that  I  am  going  to  do  excellent  work  here;  it  is  so 
much  better  than  being  in  a  dormitory  with  the  noise  and 
the  restrictions.  The  walk  to  and  from  classes  will  do 
me  a  world  of  good.  I  am  by  myself,  and  feel  almost 
unbelievably  happy." 

For  a  month  he  was  entirely  absorbed  in  his  studies. 
His  new  life  pleased  him,  and  he  worked  incessantly 
save  for  occasional  walks  by  the  river  and  through  the 
country-side.  The  year  was  in  full  decadence.  The 
breath  of  autumn  had  set  the  trees  ablaze.  He  found 
new  beauty  in  the  country  by-ways.  His  freedom  in 
toxicated  him.  Once  or  twice  he  had  come  in  close  con 
tact  with  the  student  life,  but  he  instinctively  turned  from 
it.  No  temperamental  affinities  existed  between  him  and 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  63 

the  infantile  diversions  of  his  class-mates.  He  had  met 
no  one  with  whom  he  wished  to  be  friends ;  yet  he  feared 
the  consequences  of  too  remote  a  withdrawal  from  the 
student  body.  Occasionally  he  attended  meetings  of  his 
class.  Professor  Bainbridge,  hearing  from  Joseph  West 
of  the  boy's  instinct  for  writing,  introduced  him  to  the 
board  of  older  students  who  edited  the  University 
Monthly.  The  conservative  prejudices  of  that  organiza 
tion  displeased  and  repelled  him.  On  request  he  submit 
ted  many  of  his  writings  to  the  editorial  board.  Its  criti 
cisms  were  not  dissimilar  to  those  of  his  mother  and 
father.  The  editor-in-chief,  a  chlorotic  and  affected 
senior,  reproved  him  for  his  boldness,  but  admitted  there 
was  talent  in  his  work. 

In  depressed  spirits  he  returned  to  his  room.  He  had 
expected  at  the  University  the  spirit  of  healthy  freedom, 
of  lofty  daring,  of  fine  heresy;  he  had  found  an  atmos 
phere  of  academic  piety.  He  sent  other  contributions  to 
the  Monthly — those  his  parents  had  liked  because  of  their 
inoffensiveness.  The  following  week  he  found  one  of 
them  in  print.  The  affair  sickened  him,  and  he  withdrew 
again  from  the  student  life. 


VIII 

WINTER  came  with  its  bleak,  white  days  and  its  long 
evenings.  Stanford  West  suffered  from  disquiet.  Lone 
liness  was  gaining  on  him.  The  stark  twilight  and  his 
enforced  staying  indoors  saddened  him.  At  such  times 
it  was  his  custom  to  seek  consolation  in  his  personal  writ 
ings.  But  to  whom  could  he  show  the  things  he  wrote  ? 
Where  were  those  friends  he  had  thought  to  find  at  the 
University — friends  with  firm  hearts  and  valiant 
thoughts  in  whom  he  could  confide,  assured  of  under 
standing?  Restless  and  disappointed  he  threw  himself 
into  the  University  life,  hoping  to  find  another  like  him 
self  whose  soul  was  in  revolt  against  the  pallid  dogmas 
of  the  world.  He  attended  student  gatherings.  He  fre 
quented  the  theatres  with  small  groups  of  his  classmates. 
He  appeared  at  receptions  and  informal  teas.  Occasion 
ally  he  called  at  the  sanctum  of  the  Monthly  and  joined 
in  the  literary  discussions.  He  had  a  capability  for  mak 
ing  friends,  and  it  was  but  a  short  time  before  he  was 
on  cordial  terms  with  a  score  of  the  more  serious-minded 
students  whose  social  headquarters  were  the  publication 
rooms  of  the  Monthly. 

The  cordiality  was  but  meagre  consolation.  He  took 
small  intellectual  pleasure  in  his  friendships.  These 
young  men  had  all  adopted  the  air  of  their  institution. 
They  wore  the  cloak  of  conservatism  with  satisfied  mien. 
West  was  disappointed :  he  had  hoped  for  better  things. 
But  his  true  feelings  he  kept  hidden.  He  remained  al 
ways  on  his  guard  lest  he  should  offend  those  who  had 
extended  him  their  friendship.  He  was  silent  regarding 
his  real  beliefs,  and  submitted  to  the  Monthly  board  only 

64 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  65 

those  writings  of  his  whose  ethical  conventionality  was 
plainly  manifest.  However,  he  experienced  a  mild  sen 
sation  of  pleasure  in  the  social  side  of  his  new  life.  He 
participated  in  the  drinking  bouts,  and  smoked  when  those 
about  him  smoked.  There  were  hours  of  light-hearted- 
ness  at  the  theatres  and  cafes.  There  were  processions 
and  cavalcades  of  youthful  roisterers  in  celebration  of 
athletic  victories.  And  there  were  also  literary  and 
artistic  discussions  in  the  late  afternoons.  In  all  these 
things  West  found  the  fascination  of  novelty.  If  his 
fellows  were  not  heretics  and  high  dreamers  like  himself, 
they  at  least  were  young  and  spontaneous  and  exuberant. 

But  such  a  life  could  not  long  satisfy  him.  Months 
passed :  the  edge  wore  off  these  artificial  pleasures.  His 
mood  went.  No  longer  was  he  attracted  by  the  divertise- 
ments  of  his  fellows.  Little  by  little  he  began  to  with 
draw.  The  serious  side  of  his  work  again  came  to  the 
surface.  Disgust  at  the  timidity  of  the  literary  ideals 
held  by  the  Monthly  board  supplanted  his  tolerance.  He 
reproached  himself  for  his  long  indulgences,  and  turned 
to  his  studies  with  reanimated  vigour.  He  felt  only  re 
vulsion  for  the  opinions  of  his  fellow-students — opinions 
absorbed  from  the  narrow,  reactionary  standards  of  the 
University.  He  regarded  his  former  complaisance  to 
ward  the  editors  of  Monthly  as  weakness,  and  censured 
himself  for  having  connived  with  it  by  permitting  the 
publication  of  his  more  colourless  writings. 

Nevertheless  he  found  it  nearly  as  difficult  to  cut  free 
from  his  friends  as  to  endure  the  life  concomitant  with 
keeping  them.  They  were  pleasant,  diverting  fellows: 
they  had  always  acted  generously  toward  him.  After  all, 
there  was  no  reason  for  an  unpleasant  break.  Yet  he 
feared  he  might  in  time  come  to  accept  their  point  of 
view  with  complete  toleration.  Already  he  had  felt  the 
tremendous  impact  of  conservatism  in  the  University 
life.  He  had  seen  the  engines  of  repression  actively 
at  work  upon  one  or  two  of  his  class-mates.  He  feared 


66  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

a  similar  fate  for  himself.  His  ideas  were  far  from 
being  crystallized.  He  had  found  no  satisfactory  an 
swers  to  the  problems  of  life.  His  mind  was  indecisive, 
and  he  knew  from  past  experience  that  his  hopes  were 
often  deceptive.  He  knew  also  how  mercurial  were  his 
predilections  and  desires.  Sensing  thus  the  critical  aspect 
of  his  position  he  feared  lest  his  opinions  should  be  in 
fluenced.  He  was  now  at  his  most  vulnerable  stage  of 
development. 

Of  one  thing,  however,  he  was  satisfied:  his  ability  to 
succeed  in  whatever  province  he  directed  his  energies. 
Although  on  entering  the  University  he  had  partially  de 
cided  to  carry  out  his  father's  plans  for  his  future,  such 
a  course  had  receded  into  the  realm  of  mere  possibilities. 
His  new  sense  of  freedom,  his  increasing  joy  in  writing 
and  the  fast  waning  of  Alice  Carlisle's  influence,  inspired 
him  to  consider  the  advisability  of  new  endeavours. 
Though  the  career  planned  by  his  father  had  not  been 
definitely  put  aside,  he  no  longer  set  it  before  him  as  a 
goal.  If,  after  four  years  of  University  work,  he  felt 
himself  fitted  for  no  other  vocation,  he  would  follow  it. 
His  immediate  concern,  however,  was  self-development : 
it  alone  would  determine  his  future. 

Therefore,  he  was  uneasy  concerning  the  influence  of 
his  present  friendships.  And  he  was  likewise  uneasy 
as  to  the  effects  the  loss  of  those  friendships  might  pro 
duce.  He  hesitated  some  time.  Then  he  decided  to 
meet  the  dilemma  by  reforming  his  fellows.  He  would 
overcome  their  hypocrisies,  thereby  making  them  worthy 
of  him.  It  was  a  dangerous  and  unpleasant  course,  but 
the  spirit  of  reformation,  intensified  by  his  very  uncer 
tainty,  laid  hold  upon  him.  He  believed  his  attempts 
at  proselytizing  would  be  greeted  with  enthusiasm.  ^  As 
suredly  these  young  men  were  not  by  nature  effeminate 
and  timid.  They  had  adopted  this  self-satisfied  attitude 
of  reserve,  not  instinctively,  but  because  the  organisms 
of  their  environment  dictated  a  complacent  opposition 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  67 

to  innovation.  Given  the  stimulus  of  a  leader  they  would 
be  eager  to  throw  their  support  to  the  side  of  more  dar 
ing  and  robust  doctrines. 

Accordingly  West  drew  up  a  treatise  setting  forth  his 
doctrines  and  advocating  a  vigorous  and  independent 
course  of  action.  At  the  next  meeting  of  the  Monthly 
board  to  which  contributors  were  admitted,  he  arose  and 
asked  permission  to  speak.  The  first  great  moment  of 
his  life  had  arrived.  As  he  drew  forth  his  paper,  his  face 
was  flushed  with  excitement.  His  hand  trembled  and 
his  heart  beat  exultantly.  He  was  filled  with  the  zealous 
fervour  of  the  reformer.  He  commenced  reading,  at 
first  hesitatingly;  but  soon  his  voice  grew  vibrant  with 
passion.  He  became  intoxicated  with  his  ideas,  assured 
of  his  cause.  His  manner  was  earnest  and  dictatorial. 

He  began  with  generalizations  concerning  literature, 
ancient  and  modern.  He  pointed  out  the  opportunities 
afforded  by  the  University  for  independent  development, 
and  enumerated  the  dangers  which  beset  the  younger 
and  weaker  students.  He  described  the  conservative 
spirit  which  animated  every  phase  of  university  life,  and 
raised  a  warning  against  succumbing  to  it.  Becoming 
more  personal,  he  severely  criticized  the  ideals  of  the 
Monthly  which,  he  declared,  had  unconsciously  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  contented  conservatism  of  the  institution. 
He  berated  its  editors  for  stifling,  by  narrow  and  exacting 
policies,  the  talents  of  its  contributors.  The  most  virile 
student  writer,  he  said,  was  in  danger  of  feminization 
from  its  academic  injunctions.  Instead  of  being  an  in 
fluence  for  free  self-development,  it  squeezed  all  the 
juices  of  daring  and  modernity  out  of  every  man  caught 
in  its  vise.  He  pleaded  for  a  broader  and  more  mascu 
line  policy — a  policy  of  freedom  and  aggressiveness. 
The  Monthly  had  potentialities  for  good:  it  might  be 
a  forum  for  fine  positive  expressions.  But  as  it  was 
now  run  it  put  a  premium  on  imitation,  tameness  and  in- 
nocuity.  In  short,  it  made  intellectual  cowards  of  its 


68  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

contributors  by  suppressing  what  was  bravest  and  most 
vital. 

He  ended  by  inviting  his  hearers  to  revolt  against  the 
University's  influence.  He  proposed  a  reformation  of 
the  unwritten  rules  of  the  Monthly,  so  that  henceforth 
it  would  apply  to  its  contributions  literary  and  not  theo 
logical  standards.  Inanity,  he  said,  was  no  criterion  of 
merit.  There  was  no  aesthetic  value  in  the  sentimentali 
ties  of  democracy.  By  judging  every  man's  work  by  its 
inherent  worth,  and  not  by  its  inoffensiveness,  the 
Monthly  might  become  an  outlet  for  the  finest  creative 
impulses  in  the  student  body.  It  would  thus  stimulate 
and  chasten  the  instinct  to  accomplish  work  of  a  high 
and  independent  order. 

West  sat  down  amid  silence.  His  earnestness  had 
hypnotized  the  horrified  students.  But  presently  a  mem 
ber  of  the  board  leaped  to  his  feet.  He  denounced 
West's  remarks  as  an  insult,  not  only  to  those  present, 
but  to  the  entire  University.  He  added  he  was  unaware 
that  the  Monthly  editors  were  as  incompetent  as  had 
been  intimated,  and  suggested  they  were  perhaps  better 
equipped  to  manage  their  affairs  than  a  youthful  upstart 
whose  university  experience  had  been  of  only  a  few 
months'  duration.  The  editor-in-chief,  white  with  anger, 
broke  in.  He  announced  that  writing  for  the  Monthly 
was  not  compulsory,  and  that  those  whose  tastes  and 
opinions  were  so  unquestioningly  superior  to  the  board 
need  not  suffer  further  abasement  by  sending  in  contri 
butions.  He  went  on  to  explain  that  the  Monthly  had 
been  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  the  University,  that  its  poli 
cies  were  stamped  with  professorial  approval,  that  the 
faculty  and  the  Monthly  board  had  for  many  years  dis 
charged  their  duties  without  young  Mr.  West's  assist 
ance,  that  they  probably  would  continue  to  do  so,  and 
that,  while  admitting  this  critic  to  be  a  very  superior  per 
son,  he  trusted  he  would  be  pardoned  should  he  refuse  to 
adopt  the  suggestions  put  forth. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  69 

A  general  denunciation  followed.  The  younger  men, 
striving  for  the  prestige  which  a  regular  position  on  the 
board  would  give  them,  looked  at  the  vanquished  re 
former  and  smiled  incredulously.  His  conduct  had  both 
startled  and  amused  them. 

Unable  to  withstand  their  polite  derision,  West  arose 
and  faced  them  angrily.  "You  are  a  lot  of  cowards,"  he 
said.  "You  fawn  hypocritically  before  the  board  in 
order  to  see  your  inanities  in  print.  You  haven't  the 
courage  to  write  what  you  believe.  You  prefer  a  little 
spurious  and  worthless  honour  to  the  cleanliness  of  your 
own  consciences.  You  don't  know  what  beauty  and 
heroism  are.  You  want  a  smooth  and  comfortable  life 
— that's  the  height  of  your  ideals.  You  aren't  willing  to 
fight  for  a  principle ;  you're  afraid  something  might  hap 
pen  to  you.  You  aren't  worth  a  decent  man's  consider 
ation.  You're  weaklings  without  authority  being  led 
about  by  a  board  of  weaklings  who  have  authority.  Your 
attitude  is  sickening,  but  that  of  the  board  members  is 
more  sickening.  They're  in  a  position  to  do  some 
thing  worth  while.  But  they're  tenth-rate  imitators  and 
don't  dare.  You  don't  protest,  because  you're  afraid  of 
the  consequences.  I  thought  there  was  a  little  manhood 
in  you;  but  you're  all  cowards." 

His  eyes  were  narrowed.  His  arm  was  rigid,  and  his 
finger  quivered  in  the  faces  of  the  astonished  students. 
The  editor  walked  up  to  him,  trembling  with  nervous 
ness.  He  was  a  sedate  young  man,  and  strove  for  self- 
possession  in  the  face  of  his  anger. 

"We  didn't  invite  you  to  come  here,  West,"  he  said 
with  an  attempt  at  control.  "Your  opinions  don't  inter 
est  us,  and  inasmuch  as  we  don't  suit  you  it  would  be 
best  for  you  to  go." 

West,  furious,  surveyed  him  sneeringly. 

"Do  you  think  anything  could  induce  me  to  stay  here? 
I  was  a  fool  for  thinking  any  of  you  possessed  stamina. 


70  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

My  pride  alone  would  keep  me  out  of  the  company  of 
such  hypocrites." 

The  editor  put  his  hand  on  the  other's  arm  as  if  to 
force  him  from  the  room.  West  was  incensed  beyond 
control.  He  clenched  his  fist  and  swung  it  heavily  against 
the  editor's  face. 

Not  until  the  following  day  did  he  realize  the  com 
pleteness  of  his  isolation.  News  of  the  affair  spread 
quickly.  At  classes  his  former  associates  ignored  him. 
He  met  several  of  them  on  the  campus ;  they  passed  him 
without  recognition.  Professor  Bainbridge  sent  for  him 
and  talked  to  him  seriously  and  without  sympathy.  West 
listened  without  a  word  and  went  away.  Other  mem 
bers  of  the  faculty  treated  him  coolly  and  paid  scant  at 
tention  to  his  work.  His  action  had  created  a  scandal. 
Students  and  professors  with  one  accord  set  him  aside. 

On  several  occasions  he  sought  to  avenge  himself  with 
satire.  For  one  of  his  optional  theses  he  wrote  a  stinging 
attack  entitled  "Intellectual  Cowardice."  When  he  arose 
to  read  it  he  was  silenced.  The  good  nature  with  which 
he  accepted  the  rebuff  merely  strengthened  the  enmity 
against  him.  His  solitude  pained  him.  It  was  no  longer 
a  voluntary  solitude,  but  the  solitude  of  the  defeated. 
He  had  not  withdrawn  from  his  fellows ;  he  had  been  re 
quested  to  quit  their  company.  But  his  fighting  spirit 
had  been  heightened.  He  knew  the  thrill  of  opposition. 
Alone  he  was  combating  the  world,  and  the  very  pre 
ponderance  of  his  odds  increased  his  fortitude.  His  ene 
mies  strengthened  him.  He  was  proud,  and  he  deter 
mined  to  fight  to  the  death. 

In  his  warfare  against  conservatism  and  hypocrisy  he 
consequently  became  more  and  more  energetic.  He  let 
no  opportunity  pass  by  which  he  might  deliver  a  blow. 
His  temerity  threw  his  opponents  off  their  guard.  He 
unleashed  his  sarcasm  whenever  an  opening  afforded. 
He  carried  his  head  high,  and  laughed  in  the  serious  faces 
of  his  antagonists.  His  case  became  notorious.  In  many 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  71 

of  the  newer  students  he  inspired  a  secret  admiration. 
His  tongue  was  sharp,  his  satire  biting;  and  those  of  his 
opponents  who  challenged  him  were  unable  to  cope  with 
him  verbally. 

Finally  he  was  ignored,  and  desolation  claimed  him. 
He  added  another  course  of  study  to  his  already  crowded 
calendar,  throwing  himself  into  his  studies  with  refreshed 
energy.  Thus  he  sought  to  master  his  ennui.  But  his 
rebellion  had  taught  him  many  things.  Now  that  he 
had  crossed  swords  with  his  contemporaries  he  knew 
himself  more  intimately.  He  had  come  face  to  face 
with  the  tendencies  of  his  age,  and  had  been  repelled  by 
them.  He  realized  that  conflict,  even  though  unsuccess 
ful,  was  preferable  to  the  smooth  and  nerveless  life  of 
acquiescence.  Had  he  formerly  possessed  any  vestige  of 
the  democratic  ideal,  his  experience  would  have  dissi 
pated  it.  He  now  knew  himself  to  be  temperamentally 
an  aristocrat,  an  enemy  to  the  comfortable  humanitarian- 
ism  of  his  fellow-students.  He  understood  for  the  first 
time  that  beauty  and  merit,  divorced  from  current  ethics,  ^ 
were  the  property  of  the  few.  They  could  be  retained  ^ 
only  through  struggle  and  suffering.  He  was  willing 
to  pay  this  high  price  in  order  to  retain  them.  He  had 
received  a  foretaste  of  the  parching  conflicts  which  trou 
ble  men's  souls,  and  he  was  enlivened  and  inspired 
thereby. 

He  wrote  to  his  father :  "For  a  month  I  have  been  at 
odds  with  the  student  life.  I  have  waged  a  desperate 
warfare  against  the  pious  conservatism  of  the  Univer 
sity,  and  have  attempted  to  proselytize  some  of  the 
younger  men.  But  they  have  all  been  caught  in  the 
academic  current.  They  recite  the  words  of  their  elders 
and  think  the  thoughts  of  the  professors.  For  my  pains 
I  have  been  made  an  outcast ;  but  I  do  not  want  this  fact 
to  worry  you  any  more  than  it  does  me.  I  feel  it  a 
compliment  to  be  denied  the  companionship  of  weaklings. 
The  affair  has  only  strengthened  my  opinion  of  myself. 


72  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

It  has  given  me  courage,  and  it  has  taught  me  that  a 
cleanly  intellectual  life  is  a  lonely  one.  I  feel  stronger 
than  ever  before.  I  never  knew  until  now  how  stimu 
lating  enemies  were.  I  am  not  unhappy,  as  you  may 
think,  for  I  have  been  able  to  look  into  myself  deeply. 
I  am  not  entirely  satisfied,  and  at  times  I  am  melancholy, 
but  who  save  the  great  majority  are  ever  satisfied?  And 
isn't  melancholy  the  price  of  being  free  from  one's  in 
feriors?  .  .  . 

"However,  I  am  never  mournful  as  I  used  to  be.  My 
very  sadness  thrills  me,  for  it  is  the  result  of  an  honest 
adherence  to  my  beliefs.  It  pains  me  sometimes  to 
stand  aside  and  see  the  other  students  happy  in  their  mu 
tual  companionship,  but  when  I  realize  that  my  isolation 
is  due  to  my  steadfastness  of  purpose,  I  do  not  feel  my 
pain  so  keenly.  In  my  belief  in  myself  and  in  the  reali 
zation  that  some  day  I  will  surpass  in  true  greatness 
these  very  students  who  have  demanded  my  retirement 
from  their  midst,  I  find  a  consolation  I  would  not  ex 
change  for  all  the  comfortable  delights  of  popularity." 


IX 

IT  was  at  this  time  that  Stanford  West  was  to  find  a 
friend  of  the  kind  he  had  so  long  desired.  He  had  about 
given  up  hope  of  meeting  a  student  like  himself,  a  stu 
dent  with  whom  he  might  interchange  ideas  and  beliefs 
without  fear  of  misconception.  But  one  morning  he  re 
ceived  a  letter  which  filled  him  with  enthusiasm.  It 
was  a  brief  and  direct  note  from  a  young  Russian  Jew, 
named  Phillip  SeminofY,  then  in  his  second  year  at  the 
University.  Seminoff  had  heard  of  West's  defiance  of 
the  Monthly  board.  He  made  inquiries,  and  his  esteem 
had  increased  with  every  report.  In  his  letter  he  stated 
simply  that  he  admired  West's  bravery  and  was  in  per 
fect  accord  with  the  other's  stand.  He  was  glad  to  know 
there  was  some  one  in  the  University  sufficiently  cour 
ageous  to  act  in  so  straightforward  a  manner.  He  ended 
by  expressing  the  hope  that  he  might  soon  meet  West 
for  a  friendly  talk. 

Phillip  Seminoff  proved  a  vigorous  and  intelligent 
spirit.  His  mind  was  quick  and  responsive,  his  enthu 
siasm  spontaneous  and  undisguised.  He  had  not  passed 
that  point  where  his  atheism  was  an  accepted  condition; 
in  his  anti-religious  beliefs  he  displayed  the  fiery  zeal  of 
the  intellectual  novice.  In  appearance  he  was  rugged 
and  unkempt.  He  spoke  with  intensity  and  his  words 
were  accompanied  by  strained  gesticulations.  He  had 
revolted  against  the  University  spirit  during  his  first 
month  at  the  institution  and  had  refused  to  participate 
in  any  of  the  student  activities.  Like  West  he  suffered 
from  the  solitude  of  the  vanquished.  And  like  West  his 
solitude  had  strengthened  his  hate  and  augmented  his 
prowess. 

73 


74  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

The  first  meeting  of  the  two  young  heretics  lasted  for 
hours.  Immediately  they  sensed  the  like-mindedness 
and  consciousness  of  kind  which  existed  between  them. 
They  liked  each  other  honestly  and  without  formality. 
They  were  frank  in  their  avowals  of  friendship,  and  ex 
pressed  their  admiration  for  each  other  with  an  eager 
ness  born  of  long  deprivation.  Both  were  hungry  for 
companionship  and  understanding,  and  neither  disguised 
his  pleasure  at  having  found  the  other. 

Their  friendship  ripened.  Scarcely  a  day  went  by 
during  which  they  did  not  come  together.  West  showed 
Seminoff  his  writings,  who,  reading  them  eagerly,  ex 
pressed  his  admiration.  He  had  a  sane,  critical  mind, 
and  his  admiration  was  not  the  mere  platitude  of  friend 
ship. 

"You  have  the  gift,"  he  would  tell  West.  "You  have 
the  instinct  for  beauty,  the  savour  of  rhythmical  sen 
tences,  the  feeling  for  the  inevitable  juxtaposition  of 
words.  Your  greatness  is  but  a  question  of  time."  Then 
he  added  dogmatically,  the  impulse  of  the  preacher  being 
in  him:  "But  you  must  be  true  to  yourself.  You  must 
be  careful  of  the  world's  influences.  There  will  be  people 
in  your  life  who  will  try  to  drag  you  down  to  the  medi 
ocre  level  and  instil  in  you  the  commonplaces  of  a  senti 
mental  universe.  Your  course  is  a  lonely  one ;  but  see  to 
it  that  you  put  the  evil  teachers  behind  you." 

The  two  young  men  walked  together  and  debated  in 
cessantly.  They  felt  the  eager  joy  of  youth — youth  with 
its  ardent  dreams,  its  high  aspirations,  its  love  of  heroism, 
its  simplicity  of  heart.  Stanford  West  now  had  a  friend 
with  whom  he  was  in  total  accord.  He  wrote  much,  for 
he  had  an  audience  who  understood  him.  His  thoughts 
were  bolder,  his  beliefs  more  secure,  for  he  possessed  a 
comrade  who  would  listen  to  him  and  encourage  him. 

One  day  he  received  a  long  letter  from  Alice  Carlisle. 
He  was  puzzled  by  the  fact  that  he  experienced  no  emo 
tion  at  her  words.  Hitherto  he  had  counted  on  her  for 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  75 

comfort.  When  she  was  late  in  answering  his  letters  he 
had  become  restless.  %His  sudden  lack  of  response  at  her 
words  troubled  him:  he  was  unable  to  account  for  this 
change  in  himself.  When  he  wrote  her  the  following 
week,  assuring  her  of  his  devotion,  he  experienced  a  feel 
ing  of  guilt.  Was  it  possible,  he  asked  himself,  that  he 
no  longer  loved  her?  And,  if  such  was  the  case,  what 
would  be  the  outcome?  Though  he  tried  to  convince 
himself  that  his  indifference  was  temporary,  it  became 
more  and  more  painful  to  read  her  letters.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  writing  her  the  truth,  but  pity  for  her  halted 
him.  Perhaps  in  time  his  feeling  would  change.  He 
decided  to  wait. 

Home  for  the  holidays,  he  saw  her  again ;  but  his  emo 
tions  were  not  resuscitated.  She  in  nowise  compensated 
for  his  need  of  Seminoff's  friendship.  Her  interest  in 
him,  once  so  exalting,  now  failed  to  bring  any  comfort. 
He  felt  the  inadequacy  of  her  intellectual  equipment  to 
cope  with  his  thoughts.  Once  she  reproved  him  for  an 
idea  he  expressed,  and  he  found  it  difficult  to  restrain  his 
resentment  at  her  interference.  Yet  her  love  for  him 
was  so  tender,  her  hope  so  high,  her  admiration  so  genu 
ine,  that  he  could  not  force  himself  to  disillusion  her  by 
a  confession  of  the  change  which  had  come  over  him. 
She  spoke  continually  of  their  future.  His  devotion  she 
took  for  granted  with  absolute  faith.  She  recounted  her 
plans  when  he  should  have  completed  his  university  wt>rk. 
She  gave  numerous  indications  of  her  dependence  on 
him,  and  trusted  in  his  protection  with  childish  ingenu 
ousness.  On  the  dream  of  his  love  she  had  erected  the 
edifice  of  her  entire  life. 

West  felt  the  tentacles  of  her  love  binding  him  to  inac 
tion.  Had  he  understood  the  reason  for  the  sudden  cur 
tailment  of  his  love  for  her,  he  would  have  known  what 
course  to  pursue.  But  again  his  own  uncertainty  stayed 
him,  He  was  cognizant  of  the  chameleon  quality  of  his 
nature,  and  tried  to  convince  himself  that  his  present 


76  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

mood  would  not  prove  permanent.  Accordingly  he 
sought  to  disguise  his  indifference.  In  so  doing  he  over 
stepped  the  bounds  of  even  his  previous  expressions  of 
love.  His  instinct  for  drama  led  him  to  the  most  ar 
dent  avowals. 

Alice  Carlisle,  eager  for  adoration,  questioned  not  the 
sincerity  of  his  words,  and  when  autumn  brought  separa 
tion  her  anguish  was  far  deeper  than  the  previous  year. 
But  Stanford  West  welcomed  the  approach  of  school 
work.  It  would  end  the  emotional  farce  of  the  sum 
mer:  it  would  give  him  back  his  friend. 

His  second  year  at  the  University  was  one  of  the  hap 
piest  he  ever  experienced.  After  three  months'  absence 
he  took  a  sentimental  delight  in  the  city  and  in  the  river 
paths.  Although  the  scenes  round  the  University  were 
intertwined  with  the  anguish  of  his  first  months  amid 
them,  their  new  association  with  the  friendship  of  Semi- 
noff  blotted  out  the  older  memories  and  filled  him  with 
delight.  His  friend  was  awaiting  him.  West  was  deeply 
moved.  His  emotions  at  again  seeing  Seminoff  were 
greater  than  he  had  anticipated.  The  servitudes  of  life, 
which  in  a  measure  had  always  oppressed  him,  were 
lightened  by  the  intellectual  security  his  friendship  as 
sured  him. 

That  year  three  other  youths,  like  themselves  coura 
geous  and  liberty-loving,  were  discovered.  One,  Antony 
Andersen,  was  a  rugged  and  mild-mannered  Norwegian 
who  had  aspirations  in  sculpture.  Another,  Frederick 
Latch,  vaguely  believed  in  his  future  as  a  great  drama 
tist.  The  third,  a  swarthy,  thick-set  youth  of  German  de 
scent,  named  Carl  Hagedorn,  had  a  passion  for  modern 
philosophies.  One  evening  a  week  these  five  young  here 
tics  came  together  and  disputed  bravely  on  the  ways  of 
men  and  the  world.  They  were  in  disagreement  on  many 
questions,  but  it  was  understood  that  every  man  should 
be  allowed  his  personal  beliefs  without  rancour  on  the 
part  of  the  others.  On  one  point,  however,  there  was  no 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  77 

dissonance  of  thought — their  contempt  for  the  smooth 
and  comfortable  conservatism  of  their  fellow-students 
and  the  university  authorities. 

The  year  passed  quickly.  With  regret  West  contem 
plated  its  termination.  He  had  lived  these  months  of 
companionship  to  their  full.  His  mind  was  composed 
and  free  from  unpleasant  anticipation.  He  worked  un- 
haltingly  at  his  studies.  Few  days  escaped  which  did 
not  bring  him  the  joy  and  relief  of  personal  writing. 
The  year  was  rich  in  his  discoveries  of  the  great  men  of 
the  past.  He  attended  concerts  and  found  new  pleasure 
in  music.  Through  Hagedorn  he  became  acquainted 
with  the  philosophers.  Andersen  led  him  to  art  ex 
hibitions  and  imbued  him  with  enthusiasm  for  the  ancient 
masters  of  plastic  form  and  the  modern  colour  heretics. 

He  himself  planned  a  great  work — a  literary  drama 
in  blank  verse — a  work  which  would  embody  and  set 
forth  the  lucid  mind  of  Greece.  It  was  to  be  aimed  at 
the  aesthetic  pedantry  and  academic  superstitions  of  the 
day.  At  the  same  time  it  was  to  imprison  within  its  lines 
the  beauty  and  glamour  of  paganism.  For  weeks  he 
laboured  on  the  scenario,  perfecting  his  conception  of  its 
ensemble.  His  mind  was  soaked  in  its  theme;  he  was 
conscious  of  the  courage  and  elan  which  his  associations 
inspired. 

Too  soon  summer  arrived.  The  synod  of  five  dis 
banded.  Its  members  went  their  different  ways.  Once 
more  at  Greenwood,  West  became  melancholy.  He 
missed  the  friction  of  disputes,  the  healthy  clash  of  ideas, 
the  generous  companionship.  He  attempted  to  work, 
but  the  spirit  of  endeavour  had  evaded  him.  Demands 
were  made  on  his  time  by  Alice  Carlisle,  and  he  suc 
cumbed  to  them.  When  the  summer  had  gone  he  had 
nothing  to  show  for  three  months  of  idleness.  He  had 
done  a  little  work  on  his  drama;  but  it  had  not  pleased 
him,  and  he  had  thrown  it  away. 

Another  fact  heightened  his  despondency.    It  had  now 


78  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

become  known  he  was  to  marry  Alice  Carlisle.  The  girl 
had  suggested  that  they  keep  it  hidden  no  longer.  At 
first  West  had  hesitated,  but  finally  had  yielded  to  her 
entreaties.  He  informed  his  father  of  his  desire.  Joseph 
West  was  pleased.  It  augured  well  for  the  boy's  future. 
Judge  Carlisle  also  expressed  approval. 

Stanford  West  now  felt  the  inexorability  of  his  fu 
ture.  He  knew  he  did  not  love  Alice  Carlisle,  and  there 
was  something  monstrous  in  the  fact  that  he  was  en 
gaged  to  her.  He  knew  that  cowardice  had  been  respon 
sible  for  it,  and  this  added  to  his  misery.  Yet  what 
could  he  have  done  ?  Was  it  not  indeed  possible  that  his 
sentimental  interest  in  the  girl  would  revive?  Had  he 
told  her  the  truth  he  might  have  been  guilty  of  unwar 
rantably  bringing  about  future  unhappiness  for  them 
both.  He  argued  with  himself  that  such  was  the  case. 
But  he  could  not  escape  the  sensation  that  the  blind  forces 
of  fate  were  carrying  him  on  to  a  predestined  end. 


X 

FRESH  disappointment  awaited  him  at  the  University. 
At  the  last  moment  Seminoff  found  it  impossible  to  re 
turn.  In  his  letter  he  gave  West  no  definite  reason,  stating 
merely  that  the  world  of  commerce  had  absorbed  his  am 
bitions.  West's  despondency  over  the  loss  of  his  friend 
was  deepened  by  sympathy  for  the  other's  fate.  Hage- 
dorn  had  gone  to  Leipzig  for  the  summer  and  had  de 
cided  not  to  return.  Andersen  had  concluded  to  devote 
his  entire  time  to  his  art.  Latch's  father  had  died,  and 
the  weight  of  business  affairs  had  fallen  on  him. 

West  was  broken  by  the  news.  He  went  about  his 
tasks  joylessly.  He  worked  late  into  the  night,  ceasing 
only  when  physical  fatigue  overpowered  him.  He  per 
mitted  himself  but  few  lonely  walks.  Memories  of  the 
preceding  year  assailed  him  and  left  him  dispirited.  He 
laboured  half-heartedly  on  his  drama.  There  was  no  one 
now  to  share  his  ecstasy  of  creation.  He  wrote  to  his 
former  friends,  but  their  letters  could  not  supply  that 
need  for  companionship  which  in  him  was  so  deep  and 
inherent  an  instinct.  He  found  no  new  consolations  for 
his  bereavement.  Recollections  tortured  him,  and  noth 
ing  would  quench  his  anguish.  Desperately  he  strove  to 
efface  the  days  shared  with  his  four  friends — days  of 
simple  assurance,  of  immaculate  joy,  of  divine  flashes. 
He  strove  in  vain.  As  he  watched  the  slow  vermilion 
death  of  the  year  his  old  sadness  at  the  mystery  of  na 
ture  returned  to  him.  The  rattling  of  the  fallen  leaves, 
the  brisk  whispering  of  the  wind  in  the  branches,  the 
white  dusks,  the  cold  blue  dawns — these  things  affected 
him  deeply. 

79 


8o  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Then  came  a  change.  His  loneliness  took  the  form  of 
a  vague  but  persistent  desire.  It  was  not  an  inclination 
toward  any  specific  thing.  He  longed  for  the  warmth 
and  the  glamour  of  romance :  but  it  was  the  vast,  intan 
gible  universe  of  romanticism  which  called  to  him.  He 
had  sentimental  hours  in  which  his  brain  was  crowded 
with  the  imaginary  figures  of  women  and  imaginary 
deeds  of  valour.  He  dreamed  of  meeting  tender  and 
lovely  girls  who  would  pour  out  upon  him  a  love  as  in 
tense  as  the  one  he  imagined  himself  capable  of  giving 
in  return.  He  conjured  up  in  detail  the  mental  and  phys 
ical  characteristics  of  this  nebulous  companion,  and  she 
affected  him  almost  like  a  reality.  Being  thus  in  love 
with  love,  the  aspect  of  the  world  about  him  softened 
and  became  intimate. 

Walking  among  the  dry  leaves  in  the  sinister  Novem 
ber  twilights,  he  could  feel  his  temples  throb  with  an 
emotional  fever.  The  sensation  was  different  from  that 
which  the  spectacle  of  nature  had  heretofore  aroused  in 
him.  No  longer  could  he  dissociate  the  external  world 
from  the  illusion  of  the  girl  whom  his  imagination  had 
wrought.  She  followed  him  wherever  he  went.  She 
intruded  herself  upon  his  loneliness,  inflaming  his  blood 
as  Alice  Carlisle  had  never  done.  The  brilliant  autumnal 
vines  on  the  garden  wall  opposite  his  study  window  took 
on  a  mellow  beauty  they  had  never  possessed  on  previous 
years.  There  was  a  new  radiance  in  the  luminous  moon 
light. 

Life  became  more  personal,  and  West  grew  conscious 
of  unseen  presences.  As  he  walked  the  wide  streets  of 
the  city's  suburbs,  every  old  stone  house  became,  in  his 
eyes,  a  dwelling-place  for  romance.  Perhaps  in  any  one 
of  them  he  might  find  the  materialization  of  his  persist 
ent  vision.  Behind  those  grey  walls,  in  a  quiet,  ancient 
room  rich  with  old  tapestries  and  dimly  lighted,  the  un 
known  girl  awaited  his  coming.  Should  he  enter  one 
of  these  old  houses  she  would  rise  and  turn  to  him  with 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  81 

eager  arms,  aware  of  his  longing  and  filled  with  that  same 
gentle  affection  that  he  would  bring  to  her.  Beauty  con 
stantly  called  to  him  in  the  guise  of  sex,  and  whenever 
a  pretty  girl  passed  him  on  the  street  he  would  look  at 
her  longingly,  and  his  heart  would  grow  warm. 

Often  at  night  he  crossed  the  river  into  the  great  city 
beyond,  and  dined  alone  in  those  subdued  and  unconven 
tional  cafes  where  youth  finds  an  outlet.  About  him  sat 
oblivious  couples  in  cushioned  alcoves,  radiant  with  the 
lustre  of  new  love.  Students  made  merry  with  young 
girls  of  pencilled  eyes  and  painted  cheeks.  At  such  times 
West  felt  more  keenly  than  ever  the  urgent  call  in  his 
blood.  The  bright  flushed  faces,  the  wheedling  laughter, 
the  glittering  shoulders,  the  silken  ankles,  the  stolen 
kisses,  the  light-hearted  music — this  pageantry  of  incon 
sequential  and  careless  youth  fired  him  more  strongly 
than  the  wine  he  drank.  He  had  a  consuming  desire  to 
make  love  to  one  of  these  amorous  girls  whose  laughter 
thrilled  him  and  whose  satin-clad  bodies  stirred  his  pulses. 

Maturity  seemed  but  a  vague  condition,  set  far  ahead 
along  his  path.  Those  intellectual  struggles,  which  for 
years  had  automatically  imposed  upon  him  an  unnatural 
asceticism,  lost  their  significance.  Their  importance  now 
appeared  to  him  to  have  been  greatly  exaggerated.  Hav 
ing  no  basis  of  comparison,  he  had  been  unable  to  judge 
their  true  proportions.  Now  the  physical  side  of  him 
was  asserting  itself.  Formerly  he  had  been  unconscious 
of  its  existence,  except  when  he  had  felt  the  warm  con 
tact  of  Alice  Carlisle.  But  even  the  emotion  she  had 
aroused  had  been  intellectual,  for  he  had  idealized  his 
sensations.  Now  he  yearned  for  the  sensuousness  of 
life,  the  myriad  experiences  of  the  flesh,  the  transient  sur 
prises  of  external  beauty.  Colours  caressed  him:  per 
fumes  shook  him :  music  sent  fiery  shivers  through  his 
body.  He  read  Flaubert,  Gautier,  Pierre  Louys  and 
Boccaccio.  Life  became  for  him  a  panorama  of  colour 
and  romance,  a  phantasmagoria  of  the  senses.  His  de- 


82  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

sire  for  sensation  eclipsed  his  desire  for  achievement. 
Secretly  he  subscribed  to  the  philosophy  of  The  Rubdiydt 
which  he  now  read  for  the  first  time.  He  found  himself 
unhampered  by  a  conventional  conscience.  His  reading 
and  thinking  had  convinced  him  of  the  fallacy  of  stand 
ardized  morality.  Already  there  were  strong  evidences 
of  the  Latinist  in  his  ethical  viewpoint.  He  had  reverted 
like  an  atavism  to  the  paganism  of  his  early  forebears. 
He  wondered  if  he  was  the  return  swing  of  the  pendu 
lum,  the  outward  stroke  of  which  had  been  represented 
by  the  two  preceding  generations  of  his  family.  He  was 
intrigued  by  the  hedonism  in  his  blood.  Life  called  him 
to  play,  and  his  spirit  responded  with  Dionysian  ardour. 

He  looked  back  upon  his  days  with  Alice  Carlisle,  won 
dering  how  he  could  have  overlooked  the  sensuality  of 
her  love.  Was  he  indeed  the  same  dreamy  creature  who 
had  found  consolation  in  lonely  walks  with  her  among 
the  hills,  and  who  had  planned  a  distant  future  when 
the  present  contained  so  much  of  joy?  He  had  scarcely 
noticed  the  rounded  softness  of  her  breast.  Had  he  met 
her  but  now  for  the  first  time,  how  different  would  have 
been  his  kisses !  How  close  and  long  he  would  have  held 
her  body  to  his!  How  eagerly  he  would  have  indulged 
in  all  those  subtle  delights  of  sex  he  once  ignored !  Now 
it  was  too  late.  She  had  become  familiar  to  him.  She 
was  no  longer  a  new  adventure,  no  longer  the  epitome  of 
romantic  desire  as  were  these  unknown  girls  who  passed 
him  each  night  in  the  dim  streets  and  smiled  to  him 
across  the  smoke-haze  of  the  city's  cafes. 

There  were  nights  when  he  would  go  to  the  city  and 
seek  that  simulacrum  of  romance  to  be  found  in  the 
chance  acquaintances  of  girls  in  the  streets.  He  would 
sit  with  them  in  private  dining-rooms  of  noisy  cafes  and 
try  to  forget  the  sordid  commercialism  which  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  these  conquests.  But  he  derived  only  meagre 
satisfaction  from  such  episodes.  Sometimes  his  com 
panions  were  young  and  not  unlovely;  but  this  was  not 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  83 

the  thing  he  sought.  The  reality  of  such  adventures  did 
not  dispel  the  illusion  which  constantly  led  his  spirit  on. 
These  loves  of  a  single  night  were  like  draughts  of  warm 
water  to  a  parching  thirst.  Occasionally  as  he  sat  in  a 
crowded  restaurant  with  a  young  girl  who  had  smiled  at 
him  in  the  street,  he  would  be  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  other  girls  about  him.  And  though  they  were  no  more 
attractive  than  the  one  at  his  side,  his  imagination  would 
play  about  them  until  he  forgot  he  was  not  alone.  Thus 
the  consummation  of  his  desire  seemed  always  to  escape 
him.  The  illusion  would  vanish  the  moment  his  fingers 
had  touched  it.  It  was  too  subtle  a  thing  to  analyse.  Yet 
the  fever  of  pursuit  was  on  him,  and  night  after  night 
it  led  him  into  the  surging  vortex  of  the  city.  Though  he 
studied  diligently,  his  preoccupation  in  the  search  of  sen 
sations  turned  his  mind  from  his  future  and  from  the 
ambitions  which  once  had  driven  him. 

Months  passed.  He  began  to  tire  of  his  fruitless  en 
deavours  to  capture  the  illusion  of  romance  which  per 
vaded  him.  He  suffered  no  remorse.  To  the  contrary, 
he  was  secretly  proud  of  his  experiences.  They  had 
given  him  knowledge  of  a  kind  he  had  never  possessed. 
He  had  touched  a  stratum  of  life  which,  before,  he  had 
but  vaguely  understood.  His  judgments  of  the  world, 
of  its  hopes  and  fears,  its  yearnings  and  aspirations,  had 
undergone  a  change.  Stanford  West  was  not  inclined  to 
sentimentality,  and  his  insight  into  the  great  change  and 
interchange  of  human  relationships  was  no  longer 
clouded  by  prejudice.  Certain  distortions  in  his  former 
viewpoint  had  become  more  normal  since  his  personal 
entry  into  this  new  phase  of  life.  And  though  his  ex 
periences  had  left  him  disheartened,  he  would  not  have 
wiped  them  out  of  his  consciousness  had  he  been  able. 

Now  that  he  had  temporarily  tired  of  excursions  into 
the  extra-legal  walks  of  life,  he  was  invaded  by  the  in 
clination  to  turn  them  to  account.  His  instinct  for  crea 
tion  was  still  alive.  The  life  of  actuality,  with  its  mys- 


84  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

teries  and  its  hidden  founts  of  enjoyment,  had  for  the 
moment  distracted  him.  Now  physical  satiety,  without 
spiritual  gratification,  had  set  in,  and  once  again  he 
turned  to  his  personal  writings.  He  had  acquired  new 
material  for  his  compositions.  He  had  touched  life  on 
its  grimmest  side — lightly,  to  be  sure,  but  with  sufficient 
intimacy  to  experience  those  undercurrents  which  lie  be 
neath  the  superficial  serenity  of  things.  And  in  these 
swift-moving  currents,  wherein  motives  and  causes  are 
hidden,  he  had  seen  men  and  women  spun  onward  and 
onward,  powerless  to  resist.  He  had  kissed  the  bought 
lips  of  those  in  whom  hope  was  dead;  he  had  bartered 
for  sacred  things:  and  he  had  deliberately  slaughtered 
many  of  his  finest  ideals.  He  was  no  longer  the  same. 
New  facets  in  his  nature  had  opened.  New  vistas  of 
speculation  led  forth  from  his  brain.  His  mind  had  reg 
istered  powerful  and  compelling  memories.  His  con 
ception  of  the  world  was  no  longer  flat  and  panoramic. 
His  vision,  like  that  of  one  who  suddenly  looks  through 
a  stereoscope,  acquired  a  hitherto  unperceived  sense  of 
form  and  perspective.  He  was  acutely  conscious  of 
reality.  His  introspection  gave  way  to  external  contem 
plation. 

When  he  began  again  to  write  he  was  less  personal. 
The  inflections  of  his  own  nature  were  set  aside.  He 
began  to  project  himself  into  the  consciences  of  others, 
to  analyse  motives,  to  seek  the  cause  beneath  the  effect. 
The  purely  decorative  vanished  from  his  diction.  He 
began  a  novel  in  which  the  entire  action  was  engendered 
by  the  instincts  of  its  characters.  He  used  his  personal 
experiences  as  bases  for  his  incidents.  He  tried  to  de 
pict  humanity,  not  as  a  mass  of  marionettes,  some  apothe 
osizing  virtue,  others  vice;  but  as  beings  at  once  weak 
and  strong,  good  and  bad,  humane  and  cruel.  Was  he 
himself  not  antipodal?  Had  he  not  drunk  of  the  world's 
depravity  ?  Had  he  not  shared  with  a  girl  of  the  streets 
the  first  physical  experiences  of  love  ?  Yet  was  he  wholly 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  85 

vicious  ?  Were  all  his  aspirations  dead  ?  And  again,  had 
he  not  played  the  coward's  part  in  his  relation  with  Alice 
Carlisle?  Had  not  his  hypocrisy  toward  her  been  the 
fruits  of  weakness?  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  fought 
alone  against  the  student  body.  He  had  persisted  in 
his  beliefs  with  heroic  courage.  Stanford  West,  pon 
dering  these  contradictions,  found  within  himself  the 
duality  of  life,  the  great  paradox  of  human  existence. 

Thus  by  his  immersion  in  the  squalor  of  intemperate 
living,  and  by  his  complete  submission  to  the  grosser  dic 
tates  of  the  body,  he  had  profited  intellectually.  He  had 
risen  from  his  sensualities  with  a  clearer  vision  and  a 
surer  judgment.  He  had  found  at  last  an  answer  to  the 
problem  of  right  and  wrong.  The  answer  did  not  as 
tonish  him.  He  had  always  known  it  unconsciously. 
They  were  one  and  the  same — this  right  and  wrong — in 
alienable  and  eternal.  They  were  susceptible  of  inter 
change,  according  to  people  and  conditions.  Good  and 
bad  were  instinctive  and  personal  codes,  the  expediences 
of  environment,  exalting  here,  ruining  there.  Why  had 
his  conscience  not  tortured  him  those  early  mornings  as 
he  rode  back  from  the  city,  pale  and  enervated,  with  trem 
bling  hands  and  heavy  eyes?  Surely  he  had  sinned,  as 
the  world  knows  that  word.  But  just  as  surely  he  was 
calm  and  unperturbed  at  the  thought  of  it. 

Stanford  West  incorporated  these  psychological  dis 
coveries  in  his  writings.  He  had  now  returned  to  work 
with  passionate  eagerness,  for  once  again  a  tyrannical 
ambition  for  greatness  had  laid  hold  on  him.  With  his 
own  eyes  he  had  beheld  life,  stripped  and  nude;  and  he 
knew  the  touch  of  her  gaunt  and  brutal  body.  The  un 
attainable  desire  for  romance  was  Still  in  his  blood,  but 
at  last  he  had  begun  to  recognize  the  impossibility  of  its 
fulfilment.  Therefore  he  sought  to  embody  it  in  his  writ 
ing.  He  worked  late  into  the  night  and  was  busy  again 
at  dawn,  his  soul  tortured  with  a  feverish  unrest. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  came  to  know  Irene  Brenner. 


86  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Her  face  was  not  unfamiliar  to  him,  for  he  had  seen  her 
occasionally  with  the  older  students  of  the  University. 
One  night  in  a  cafe  he  had  caught  her  eyes  for  a  second, 
and  there  had  flashed  to  him  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
been  aware  of  his  gaze.  She  was  a  conspicuous  figure  in 
that  part  of  university  life  which  begins  when  the  day's 
work  is  over,  and  West  had  heard  her  name  many  times. 
There  were  hints  concerning  escapades  of  which  she  was 
a  part,  and  it  was  rumoured  that  a  wealthy  senior  the  year 
before  had  been  disinherited  and  compelled  to  leave  the 
University  on  her  account.  Her  beauty  alone  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  attract  undergraduate  attention, 
even  had  there  been  no  fantastic  reports  concerning  her. 
In  themselves  the  stories  were  harmless  enough,  but  they 
were  of  the  sort  which  stimulate  speculation,  especially 
in  minds  but  recently  versed  in  life's  sophistications. 

Her  beauty  had  appealed  to  West  when  he  first  saw 
her.  It  was  at  once  extravagant  and  subtle,  with  an  un 
deniable  touch  of  the  exotic  in  it :  it  was  said  her  mother 
had  been  a  French  Jewess.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  far 
apart — a  characteristic  which,  when  accentuated  by  a 
small  straight  nose,  bordered  on  the  abnormal.  Her 
lips  were  full,  and  had  her  face  not  been  a  trifle  broad, 
her  mouth  would  have  appeared  too  large.  Her  cheek 
bones  were  higher  than  the  Anglo-Saxon  standard  of 
beauty  permits,  and  there  was  a  cleft  in  her  oval  chin 
which  augmented  the  unusualness  of  her  appearance. 
Her  hair,  dark  brown  and  thick,  hung  loose,  almost  in 
disorder,  about  her  temples,  completely  hiding  her  ears. 
Her  Jewish  ancestry  was  particularly  evident  in  her  rich 
colouring,  not  as  dark  as  olive  yet  darker  than  rose. 
Her  body  was  full,  but  she  dressed  in  a  way  which  made 
her  appear  almost  slender.  West  had  unconsciously  re 
marked  the  difference  between  her  rich  beauty  and  the 
delicate  prettiness  of  Alice  Carlisle.  He  had  also  made 
a  comparison  of  the  temperaments  of  the  two  girls,  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  87 

one  impulsive,  vital  and  colourful,  the  other  demure, 
quiet  and  serious. 

When  he  first  spoke  to  Irene  Brenner  the  intangible 
desire  for  romance,  which  all  that  year  had  been  part  of 
his  waking  hours,  intensified  until  it  dominated  him 
wholly.  There  was  in  this  girl  an  indefinable  element  of 
mystery — an  impenetrable  region  which  lies  on  the  fur 
ther  side  of  silence.  She  possessed  that  residuum  of 
personality  which,  no  matter  how  deeply  one  might  pene 
trate,  remains  unknown.  It  was  this  elusive  and  vague 
quality  which  appealed  to  the  intractable  desire  in  West. 
No  longer  was  the  thing  he  sought  a  mere  abstraction. 
Here  it  was  embodied  in  a  girl  whose  fingers  he  might 
touch  and  whose  lips  he  might  kiss. 

The  night  he  had  met  her  events  shaped  themselves 
so  that  he  was  thrown  with  her  alone.  After  a  day  of 
confining  labour  he  had  answered  the  insistent  call  of 
the  city.  He  sat  alone  drinking  and  smoking,  letting  his 
spirit  drift  on  the  surface  of  the  feverish,  chromatic  life 
around  him.  From  a  curtained  alcove  opposite  him  came 
the  nervous  high-pitched  laughter  of  merry-makers.  He 
could  see  but  two  of  them.  One  was  Irene  Brenner,  the 
other  a  student  he  knew  by  sight.  He  caught  the  girl's 
eyes  for  a  moment,  and  became  keenly  conscious  of  his 
isolation  as  he  watched  her  talking  gaily  with  some  per 
son  invisible  to  him.  Then  presently  a  man  stepped  forth 
from  the  alcove  and  approached  him.  He  was  Albert 
Deming,  a  senior  whose  wealth  had  made  him  well- 
known  in  university  life.  West  had  met  him  once  at  the 
house  of  Professor  Bainbridge. 

"If  you're  all  alone,  West,"  Deming  said  unenthu 
siastically  as  he  reached  the  other,  "we'd  be  glad  to  have 
you  join  us." 

Something  in  his  manner  made  West  hesitate.  But 
the  girl's  eyes  were  on  him,  and  she  was  smiling  faintly. 
He  rose  and  moved  to  the  other  table  where  a  place  was 
made  for  him  amid  a  torrent  of  jocular  comments  and 


88  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

extravagant  greetings.  He  suffered  no  embarrassment, 
and  responded  pleasantly,  for  he  felt  older  than  any  of 
those  present.  His  felicity  of  manner  and  easy  uncon 
sciousness  took  them  by  surprise.  Quickly  their  attitude 
changed,  and  they  accepted  him  without  further  demon 
stration.  For  two  hours  there  was  a  gay  interchange  of 
badinage  which  grew  in  volume  and  incoherence  as  the 
time  passed.  Wine  was  consumed  steadily.  Waiters 
were  reprimanded  with  simulated  anger  for  their  lack 
of  swiftness  in  filling  the  glasses.  The  flush  of  the  girls' 
faces  deepened,  and  eyes  glittered  unnaturally.  Voices 
grew  louder.  Laughter  rose  shrilly.  Men  shouted 
hoarsely,  sang  snatches  of  popular  songs,  and  drummed 
frantically  on  the  table. 

West  drank  heavily  with  the  others.  His  head  reeled 
exquisitely.  He  caught  the  spirit  of  the  assembly,  and  a 
fatalistic  gaiety  seized  him.  Nothing  mattered.  His  fu 
ture  was  blotted  out.  He  was  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 
A  silken  knee  touched  him  under  the  table,  and  he  burst 
into  wild  laughter  at  the  thought  of  his  old  seriousness. 
He  was  constantly  aware  of  the  subtle  appeal  of  Irene 
Brenner.  Their  eyes  met  often,  and  they  smiled  hap 
pily  to  each  other.  His  tongue  became  fluent  and  he 
joked  noisily.  His  instinct  for  play,  for  years  dor 
mant,  burst  forth  in  him.  Not  alone  with  wine  was  he 
drunk.  His  brain  swayed  with  the  intoxication  of  a  new 
and  undreamed-of  life.  During  the  past  few  months  he 
had  tasted  the  husk  of  this  new  life;  he  had  lived  its  ar 
tificial  counterpart,  and  he  knew  what  was  expected  of 
him.  He  understood  the  temper  of  the  evening.  His 
sense  of  values  held  him  at  that  point  beyond  which,  had 
he  ventured,  he  would  have  met  resentment.  But  there 
were  certain  prerogatives  which  his  manner  and  bearing 
allowed  him.  These  he  exercised;  and  when  he  'spoke 
the  others  listened.  Even  in  ribaldry  his  power  for  lead 
ership  asserted  itself.  Girls  and  men  alike  smiled  at  him 
admiringly.  He  had  the  gift  of  compelling  speech,  and 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  89 

when  he  rose  to  offer  a  toast,  his  words  came  quickly 
and  competently.  His  hilarity  was  contagious,  and  his 
personality  dominated  his  listeners. 

The  hour  grew  late.  Slowly  the  cafe  became  deserted. 
There  was  now  pandemonium.  Disorder  and  noise 
reigned.  The  front  door  had  been  closed,  and  they  were 
alone.  Red  faces  from  the  kitchen  peered  cautiously  into 
the  room.  The  attendants  looked  on  smiling.  The  man 
ager  counted  the  night's  proceeds  and  said  nothing.  Open 
love-making  began.  One  girl  ran  round  the  table  in  mock 
fright.  A  swaying  student  followed  and  caught  her. 
The  others  jeered  and  roared.  Another  student  stum 
bled  to  the  deserted  orchestra  stage  and  tried  to  play  the 
piano.  The  sounds  were  discordant  and  unintelligible. 
He  swore  good-naturedly,  and  gave  it  up.  A  girl  had 
her  feet  on  the  table,  her  dress  above  her  knees.  A  man 
next  to  her,  following  out  some  illusive  and  tangled  idea 
of  gallantry,  baptized  her  ankles  in  champagne,  intoning 
Latin  conjugations  as  he  did  it.  The  girl  screamed  and 
sent  the  dishes  rattling  with  her  feet.  .  .  . 

"Maudie's  dead/'  shouted  some  one,  and  began  to 
laugh  hysterically. 

Every  one  looked.  The  girl  indicated  lay  with  her 
head  on  the  table,  breathing  heavily.  The  student  at  her 
side  lifted  the  inert  body  and  couched  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  Then  he  began  singing  "Rock-a-bye,  baby,  in 
the  tree-top"  in  a  hoarse,  tuneless  voice.  Every  one  took 
it  up.  The  unconscious  girl  aroused  herself. 

"I  just  dreamed "  she  began. 

Laughter  and  hooting  drowned  her  voice. 

One  of  the  men  snatched  a  great  cluster  of  roses  from 
the  centre  of  the  table  and  held  them  aloft. 

"For  the  most  beautiful  girl  present,"  he  announced. 

A  cheer  greeted  his  proposal. 

"Who'll  decide?"  a  voice  asked. 

"The  invited  guest — the  stranger  within  our  gates," 
answered  another  voice. 


90  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"Certainly!  All  right!  West!  West!"  Every  one 
seemed  to  shout  his  name. 

The  flowers  were  thrust  into  his  hand.  He  counted 
the  girls  present,  and  divided  the  bouquet  equally,  letting 
some  of  the  roses  fall  across  his  knees.  Then  he  dis 
tributed  them. 

There  was  a  wild  cheer,  punctuated  by  laughing  accu 
sations  of  cowardice.  While  they  shouted,  he  gathered 
the  roses  he  had  let  fall  and  passed  them  secretly  to  Irene 
Brenner. 

Albert  Deming,  sitting  next  to  West,  saw  the  action, 
and  became  morose.  For  a  while  he  drank  in  silence. 
Then  he  leaned  across  to  the  girl  and  whispered  some 
thing  in  her  ear.  She  turned  on  him  angrily,  and  struck 
him  in  the  face.  There  was  a  hush,  and  the  man  rose  un 
steadily.  With  a  sneer  at  West  he  took  his  hat  and  coat 
and  went  reeling  from  the  room. 

A  reaction,  sudden  and  final,  settled  upon  those  who 
remained.  Irene  Brenner  put  her  hand  on  West's  arm. 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,"  she  said. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  and  the  girl  were  in  a  closed 
carriage.  Neither  spoke.  His  hand  clasped  hers  on  the 
seat  between  them.  Suddenly  the  carriage  turned  into  a 
deserted  street.  In  a  moment  his  arms  were  about  her, 
and  he  was  straining  her  body  hard  against  his  own. 
She  did  not  resist  him,  and  he  could  feel  her  quivering 
through  him.  His  face  was  against  hers,  and  he  was 
kissing  her  rapidly,  almost  brutally,  on  the  mouth.  She 
moved  her  head  upward  that  she  might  miss  none  of  his 
kisses,  and  her  arms  went  round  his  shoulders  and  clung 
to  him.  The  boy  was  muttering  something  against  her 
face — something  she  could  not  understand,  but  whose 
portent  she  sensed. 

An  hour  later  they  stood  in  the  dark  hallway  of  a  little 
apartment  house  not  half  a  mile  from  the  college.  Again 
she  was  in  his  arms,  almost  breathless  because  of  his  sav 
age  embrace. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  91 

"I  love  you."  He  repeated  the  phrase  over  and  over 
again.  "From  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you  I  loved  you. 
What  would  I  have  done  if  I  hadn't  found  you  to-night?" 

"I  sent  for  you,"  the  girl  said  softly.  "I  wanted  you." 
She  struggled  free  from  his  arms.  Then  taking  his  hand 
she  led  him  across  the  dark  hallway  and  up  the  back 
stairs. 


XI 

IRENE  BRENNER'S  nature  was  not  one  in  which  unself 
ishness  played  a  part.  By  the  older  men  of  the  Uni 
versity  she  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  that  class  of  pleas 
ure-loving  girls  who,  in  all  college  towns,  congregate  in 
the  rich  students'  quarter,  and  who  find  what  relish  they 
seek  in  life  in  a  round  of  entertainments  where  money  is 
spent  lavishly.  Her  beauty  had  made  her  popular.  She 
was  always  confronted  by  a  choice  of  invitations,  and  stu 
dents  competed  with  one  another  for  her  company.  She 
knew  this  and  had  been  sufficiently  clever  to  maintain  im 
partiality  toward  those  with  whom  she  appeared  in  pub 
lic.  Many  students  had  been  in  love  with  her,  but  she 
had  rejected  them  all  with. the  solicitous  good  humour 
which  an  older  woman  might  use  toward  the  foibles  of 
children. 

In  Stanford  West,  however,  she  found  a  personality 
radically  different  from  those  to  which  she  had  been  ac 
customed.  Despite  his  youth  there  was  maturity  in  his 
demeanour.  His  solidity  of  character  impelled  her  as  no 
other  student  had  been  able  to  do.  There  was  in  him 
a  reserve  she  could  not  penetrate,  an  authority  she  could 
not  resist.  His  poise,  his  natural  intensity,  his  silent, 
domineering  manner,  his  hidden  power — these  things 
weakened  her  own  stability  and  self-possession.  She 
could  govern  and  sway  the  natures  of  other  students,  but 
she  was  aware  of  her  impotence  in  West's  presence. 
When  she  went  about  with  him  her  will  was  relaxed ;  she 
was  content  to  put  her  dependence  in  him.  With  him 
she  was  never  uneasy.  She  was  not  afraid,  as  she  had 
been  with  other  students,  that  some  rash  act  of  his  might 

92 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  93 

lead  to  an  unpleasant  situation  from  which  she  would 
have  to  extricate  herself.  He  was  not  immature  as  had 
been  her  other  companions.  He  gained  his  ends  quietly 
and  good-naturedly  through  the  sheer  insistence  of  his 
personality.  There  was  in  his  address  a  superiority,  felt 
but  not  seen,  which  commanded  respect.  But  withal  there 
was  a  youthful  spontaneity  in  his  actions.  He  threw 
himself  into  the  follies  of  life  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
boy.  His  inherent  solemnity  never  intruded  on  the 
gaiety  of  his  nature.  It  was  her  first  experience  in  feeling 
security.  And  Irene  Brenner  gave  herself  up  to  the  fasci 
nation  of  this  paradox  from  without,  and  while  she 
chafed  under  the  comparative  meagreness  of  his  income, 
she  could  not  resist  the  influence  of  his  personality. 

Stanford  West  was  twenty-two,  although  he  appeared 
many  years  older.  He  was  of  medium  height  and  well- 
built.  His  head,  though  not  large,  gave  the  effect  of  mas- 
siveness.  His  hair  was  dark,  almost  black,  and  grew  well 
back  from  his  forehead  and  temples.  There  was  a  sug 
gestion  of  ruggedness  in  his  face,  despite  the  austere  reg 
ularity  of  his  features.  Above  his  eyes  were  protruding 
forms  which  were  accentuated  by  a  slight  permanent 
frown.  His  eyes,  heavily  lashed,  had  little  warmth. 
They  were  grey  and  implacable,  at  times  severe,  and,  be 
cause  of  their  sheltered  intensity,  they  held  those  who 
looked  into  them.  His  nose  was  too  straight,  too  pow 
erful  perhaps  for  an  artist,  but  its  rigour  was  softened  by 
a  mouth  whose  sensitiveness  suggested  some  deep-lying 
weakness.  It  was  a  mobile  and  refined  mouth,  and  on 
occasions  showed  firmness.  Generations  had  gone  into 
its  production — generations  in  which  compromise  and 
assertiveness  had  fought  for  dominance,  neither  having 
been  fully  victorious.  His  chin  was  oval  but  strong,  ca 
pable  of  aggressiveness  yet  susceptible  to  influences. 
There  was  no  hint  of  fulness  about  his  face,  but  it  rep 
resented  power,  and  it  possessed  a  beauty  which  was  not 
alone  Apollonian. 


94  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

West  dressed  with  care,  almost  with  fastidiousness. 
He  recognized  the  value  of  clothes  and  had  inherited 
an  autocratic  penchant  for  distinctive  dress.  The  ap 
pearance  of  his  person  strongly  influenced  his  bearing, 
and  he  watched  over  his  body  with  immaculate  care. 
Irene  Brenner  regarded  his  careful  dressing  with  pride. 
She  was  proud  also  of  the  distinctive  way  in  which  he 
always  carried  himself.  He  had  the  gift  of  adaptability, 
and  because  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  power,  he  could 
hold  himself  in  hand  even  amid  the  most  unfamiliar  sur 
roundings.  This  worldliness  of  manner  had  inspired  the 
girl's  confidence  the  first  night  she  had  seen  him.  And 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  his  easy  bearing  and  self-pos 
session  had  won  favour  for  himself  in  a  company  whose 
attitude  had  at  first  been  hostile.  The  student  body  had 
not  forgiven  him  for  his  satirical  indifference,  nor  had 
his  outburst  of  two  years  ago  been  blotted  from  their 
minds. 

The  tone  of  West's  life  had  now  changed.  He  had 
found  in  Irene  Brenner  that  intractable  romance  which 
had  tortured  him  since  the  early  autumn.  But  now  that 
he  possessed  it,  all  else  was  obliterated.  His  personal 
writings  had  been  put  away ;  no  longer  did  they  hold  his 
interest.  The  instinct  for  creation  had  been  supplanted 
by  an  instinct  for  the  actual.  The  call  of  Irene  Brenner's 
love  was  stronger  than  the  call  of  his  future.  When  he 
tried  to  work  the  vision  of  her  would  haunt  him.  The 
perfume  of  her  body,  the  soft  tenacity  of  her  arms,  and 
the  wonder  of  her  whispered  words  flooded  his  brain  and 
drove  him  from  his  ambitions.  Nervously  he  would  put 
away  his  work  and  go  to  her,  forgetting  all,  even  his 
studies,  for  days  at  a  time. 

He  became  obsessed  with  her.  Under  all  circumstances 
he  was  conscious  of  her  presence.  In  the  classroom  his 
mind  drifted  from  his  surroundings  into  vivid  visualiza 
tions  of  their  hours  together.  When  unable  to  be  with 
her,  he  sat  alone  in  a  sort  of  voluptuous  stupor,  giving 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  95 

free  rein  to  his  imagination.  Certain  impressions  of  her 
detached  themselves  from  the  moving  sequence  of  their 
life  together,  as  if,  like  a  camera,  his  mind  had  regis 
tered  now  and  then  a  static  vision.  These  impressions 
passed  continually  before  him,  appearing  suddenly  and 
without  warning.  That  world,  both  past  and  future, 
which  existed  outside  the  immediate  influence  of  his 
infatuation  became  drab  and  indistinct. 

When  the  memory  of  Alice  Carlisle  was  forced  upon 
him  by  her  letters,  he  viewed  his  past  with  contempt. 
He  was  ashamed  of  his  youth  and  the  inexperience  which 
led  him  to  imagine  he  once  loved  her.  Yet  even  now 
he  was  unable  to  tell  her  the  truth :  he  shrank  from  the 
unpleasantness  of  such  a  confession.  So  he  wrote  her 
as  he  had  always  done,  and  she  detected  no  change  in 
him.  He  kept  the  semblance  of  that  romance  alive  with 
mechanical  precision.  He  regarded  the  whole  affair  ob 
jectively  as  something  detached  and  apart  from  himself. 
Without  permitting  himself  to  weigh  the  consequences, 
he  perpetuated  the  deception  in  the  spirit  of  one  perform 
ing  a  disagreeable  but  inevitable  duty.  The  future  was 
too  nebulous,  too  distant  to  cause  him  apprehension.  The 
spell  of  the  present  was  too  keen:  he  was  hypnotized  by 
the  immediacy  of  life.  He  lived  in  the  heaven  of  his 
youth,  believing  it  eternal. 

He  began  to  lose  interest  in  his  studies.  At  first  he 
had  fought  the  inclination  to  shirk  his  work.  He  took 
his  books  to  Irene  Brenner's  apartment.  It  had  been  her 
suggestion.  She  had  told  him  he  could  study  there; — 
would  they  not  then  be  together  ?  He  bought  a  desk  and 
put  it  by  the  large  window  in  her  drawing-room.  The 
room  was  small  and  richly  furnished.  There  was  dark 
silk  on  the  wall,  and  heavy  velvet  hangings  at  the  doors 
and  windows.  The  lighting  was  subdued,  and  before  the 
fireplace  were  low,  sprawling  chairs.  The  woodwork 
and  the  walls  were  dark,  and  all  about  were  jars,  vases, 
scimitars  and  tabourettes  breathing  forth  the  atmosphere 


96  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

of  oriental  luxury.  The  floor  was  deep  with  Persian 
rugs,  and  small  scarfs  and  embroidered  coverlets  made 
spots  of  colour  among  the  rich  sombreness  of  the  walls 
and  draperies. 

West  felt  the  silent  insistence  of  inaction  which  per 
vaded  the  room.  Outside  the  world's  strenuous  traffick 
ing,  the  great  flux  and  reflux  of  human  activity,  went  on 
unceasingly.  Men  came  and  went,  fought  and  worked, 
imagining  they  were  moulding  their  petty  destinies. 
Breathlessly  and  feverishly  the  battle  of  aspiration 
waged.  The  far,  muffled  sound  of  it  penetrated  the  som 
bre  room,  and  West  paused  and  listened.  Where  did 
they  lead — those  millions  of  cross-currents  of  human  life, 
pushing  and  straining,  each  convinced  of  its  destinate 
power?  In  the  end  they  were  all  caught  and  buried  be 
neath  the  great  avalanche  of  the  onrushing  years.  The 
grotesque  futility  of  endeavour  made  him  smile. 

Out  there  beyond  the  naked  trees  a  man  hurried  by, 
tense  and  silent,  oblivious  of  all  about  him,  driven  by 
some  desire,  some  ambition,  some  grotesque  sense  of  his 
own  importance.  Overhead  the  sun  looked  down  with  a 
serenity  which  mocked  the  puny  restlessness  of  earth. 
And  beyond  the  sun,  in  the  vastness  of  infinity,  new 
worlds  were  being  born.  The  sublime  futility  of  human 
strife !  The  bitter  humour  of  the  hurrying  man !  Surely 
the  gods  were  laughing  at  his  antics!  .  .  . 

The  boy  at  the  window  closed  his  book  and  turned 
to  the  quiet  room.  To  him  it  was  a  sequestered  retreat 
outside  the  gates  of  the  world,  where  listlessness  and 
meditation  seemed  saner  than  the  meaningless  moil  of  ac 
tion.  Before  the  fire  sat  the  girl,  her  eyes  half  closed, 
her  long  slender  hands  hung  motionless  from  the  chair 
arms. 

"You  love  your  work  more  than  you  do  me,"  she 
scolded  quietly. 

He  seated  himself  at  her  feet  and  drew  her  arm  about 
his  neck. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  97 

"I  love  you  more  than  anything  in  life,"  he  replied. 

"And  yet,"  the  girl  persisted,  "in  ten  minutes  you  will 
leave  me  alone,  because  you  have  a  lecture." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  thought  of  the  hurrying  man 
in  the  street  and  of  the  laughing  gods.  Ten  minutes 
passed. 

"Don't  go  to-day,  sweetheart,"  the  girl  pleaded.  Her 
mouth  moved  about  his  face.  The  perfume  of  her! 
"Stay  with  me." 

During  the  past  month  he  had  missed  many  classes. 
Here  by  the  open  fire  he  had  lounged,  outside  the  gates 
of  the  world.  At  first  he  had  resented  Irene  Brenner's 
interference  in  his  work.  He  had  upbraided  himself  for 
his  acquiescence.  But  now  it  had  become  a  habit.  What 
mattered  a  little  learning? 

In  the  evenings  the  city  claimed  him.  That,  too,  had 
become  a  habit,  and  one  which  took  strong  hold  of  him. 
It  grasped  him  like  a  drug,  and  led  him  night  after  night 
into  the  crowded  glamour  of  cafe  life.  All  day  he  looked 
forward  to  those  hours  with  Irene  Brenner  in  the  midst 
of  the  ever-changing  romance  of  the  city's  recreative 
hours.  He  was  fascinated  by  the  mystery  of  it — the 
clangour  of  the  ghost-like  traffic,  the  great  dancing  shafts 
of  light  athwart  the  streets,  the  sinister  avenues  of  semi- 
darkness,  the  painted  faces,  the  half-seen  figures  of  young 
girls,  the  whispering  couples,  the  curtained  carriages 
with  their  hidden  secrets,  the  overhead  flames  and  the 
distorted  shadows,  the  silhouettes  on  shaded  windows, 
the  snatches  of  indecipherable  music,  the  whirlpool  of 
human  movement,  the  jangling  of  cars,  the  commingling 
of  laughter  and  talk ; — and  by  his  side  the  unfathomable 
mystery  of  sex,  the  soft  hands  searching  for  his,  the  hair 
against  his  cheek,  the  low  reiteration  of  love,  the  warm 
pressure  of  the  girl's  body. 

It  was  different  from  being  alone  with  her  in  her  apart 
ment.  Then  there  was  always  the  consciousness  of  each 


98  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

other's  isolated  personality.  There  was  too  intimate  and 
personal  a  communion  between  them.  Their  love  was 
stripped  of  its  illusion,  and  the  silence  called  out  for 
words.  But  in  the  movement  and  din  of  half -suggested 
reality  they  could  cling  together  in  silence,  finding  in  the 
myriad  phases  of  life  about  them  the  unmistakable  sym 
bols  of  their  love.  They  read  their  own  lives  into  every 
flitting  romance.  They  saw  themselves  mirrored  in  every 
whispering  couple  which  passed  them.  In  the  recesses  of 
every  hooded  carriage  it  was  they  who  clung  close  to 
gether.  And  every  lone  man  or  woman  seeking  through 
the  crowds  represented  their  own  soul  in  the  eternal 
quest  of  the  other.  In  the  late  night,  when  they  would 
turn  again  toward  the  silence  and  solitude  of  home,  it 
was  as  if  they  had  found  each  other  again  for  the  first 
time — as  if  they  had  discovered  anew  that  subtle  and 
wild  intoxication  of  the  first  great  conquest  of  each  oth 
er's  love. 

Months  went  by — months  filled  with  the  inconsequen 
tial  pleasures  of  spontaneous  living.  Stanford  West's 
first  qualms  of  conscience  regarding  his  neglected  work 
had  now  been  dissipated  by  the  joy  which  his  new  man 
ner  of  living  brought  him.  There  was  little  time  for 
unpleasant  self -analysis.  Every  night  found  him  at  the 
theatres  or  cafes,  sometimes  alone  with  Irene  Brenner, 
sometimes  in  company  with  others.  In  the  mornings  he 
slept  late,  and  lingered  over  his  breakfast  and  cigarettes. 
He  was  lazy  during  the  forenoons,  only  occasionally  find 
ing  sufficient  courage  to  go  forth  into  the  cold  and  attend 
lectures.  Even  when  he  succeeded  in  answering1  the 
call  of  his  work,  he  sat  listlessly  and  disinterestedly 
through  his  classes.  He  rarely  made  notes,  for,  after  the 
first  few  minutes,  the  instructor's  voice  became  for  him 
a  meaningless  drone — as  meaningless  as  the  drama  of  life 
itself.  The  ordeal  over,  he  turned  straightway  to  the 
secluded  solitude  of  Irene  Brenner's  apartment.  Some 
times  winter  sports  called  them  forth — sleighing  when 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  99 

the  snow  was  deep,  skating  when  the  rivers  and  ponds 
were  frozen.  At  other  times  there  were  teas  and  dinners 
at  the  houses  of  friends;  and  always  at  night,  there  was 
the  city. 

Occasionally,  during  physical  reactions,  West  turned 
his  mind  to  his  own  writings.  He  now  had  time  for 
desultory  reading,  and  his  old  desire  to  create  would 
ride  in  on  the  surface  of  his  temporary  depressions. 
Many  of  the  things  he  had  written  he  read  to  the  girl. 
She  praised  them  in  conventional  phrases,  sometimes 
smiling  at  his  earnestness.  He  could  see  they  did  not  in 
terest  her.  Her  tastes  were  primitive.  She  laughed  at 
the  books  he  read,  and  once  when  he  had  taken  her  to  a 
concert  her  uneasiness  was  so  apparent  that  he  did  not 
venture  it  again.  But  he  was  not  discouraged.  His  own 
interests  at  present  were  but  the  echoes  of  an  earlier  and 
distant  existence. 

One  day  there  came  a  letter  from  his  father  which 
affected  him  deeply.  News  of  the  boy's  indifference  to 
his  work  had  reached  Joseph  West,  and  the  letter  was 
a  plea  for  a  realization  of  the  necessity  of  study.  His 
words  were  not  harsh.  Joseph  West  loved  his  son  too 
much  to  write  with  bitterness.  The  letter  merely  called 
attention  to  the  other's  failures,  to  the  wasted  hours,  to 
the  opportunities  ignored,  to  the  consequences  of  idle 
ness,  to  the  sacrifices  which  were  being  made  for  him,  to 
the  toll  which  life  would  some  day  take  from  the  great 
ness  which  might  be  his. 

The  letter  had  its  effect.  Stanford  West  was  downcast 
for  days.  He  began  to  study  again,  but  he  experienced 
great  difficulty  in  concentrating  his  mind.  He  had  lost 
the  instinct  for  work.  His  brain  moved  slowly;  its  plas 
ticity  seemed  gone.  But  the  memory  of  his  father's 
words  shamed  him,  and  he  forged  ahead  like  an  autom 
aton.  In  the  evenings,  pleading  a  headache,  he  locked 
himself  up  with  his  books.  But  his  labours  proved  fu 
tile.  It  took  all  his  will-power  to  fight  off  the  insistent 


ioo  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

call  of  the  city.  There  was  little  energy  left  to  apply 
to  his  work.  Irene  Brenner  did  not  understand  this  sud 
den  change  in  him.  It  puzzled  her,  and  she  resented  it. 

One  day  she  confronted  him,  openly  accusing  him  of 
tiring  of  her.  But  she  knew  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  that 
her  accusation  was  unjust.  She  changed  her  tone. 

"You  are  all  I  have  in  the  world/'  she  began  plead 
ingly,  "and  now  you  are  drawing  away  from  me.  Does 
your  work  mean  so  much  that  you  can  leave  me  alone? 
.  .  .  I'm  so  unhappy  without  you.  And  what  does  your 
work  matter?  .  .  .  Haven't  we  been  happy?  Haven't 
you  been  happy  ?  Are  you  going  to  let  anything  stand  in 
the  way  of  our  love?  .  .  .  Come,  dear  .  .  .  don't  go 
away  from  me  to-day.  I'm  too  lonely." 

West  took  her  in  his  arms  tenderly. 

"Nothing  matters  but  you,"  he  said.     "Only " 

She  began  to  cry.  The  boy  leaned  down  and  kissed 
her  tears  away. 

"Some  day  I  may  be  great,"  he  told  her.  "Then 
there'll  be  nothing  I  can't  give  you.  Suppose  for  a  while 
we  have  to  give  up  something:  what  of  the  years  ahead 
of  us?  .  .  .  We  are  both  so  young." 

"I  can't  wait  for  you,"  the  girl  sobbed.  "I  want  you 
now — as  you  are — always  with  me." 

"But  what  of  the  future?"  he  persisted,  only  half  be 
lieving  in  it  himself,  as  he  felt  her  young  body  shaking 
against  his. 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  don't  care."  There  was  petu 
lance  in  her  voice.  "I  only  know  what  I  want  now." 

"Wouldn't  you  want  me  to  be  great  some  day  ?"  The 
boy  was  trying  to  recall  SeminofL  He  needed  the  influ 
ence  of  that  personality  to  convince  himself  of  his  own 
possibilities. 

"We  couldn't  be  any  happier  than  we  are  now,  no  mat 
ter  how  great  you  became,"  she  answered,  as  one  who  ar 
gues  against  incredible  things. 

The  idea  of  greatness  had  never  presented  itself  to  her. 


THE  MAN  OF  -PROMISE? :  \/*\     101 

It  had  no  place  in  her  scheme  of  life,  and  meant  nothing 
to  her.  She  had  never  conceived  it  as  possible  in  those 
she  knew.  Greatness  was  a  condition  of  that  world  in 
which  she  had  no  interest — the  world  of  effort  and  re 
sponsibility,  of  serious  thought  and  strenuous  labour.  She 
knew  there  must  be  such  a  world,  but  it  was  far  removed 
from  her  own  sphere,  and  she  had  no  desire  to  enter  it. 
Life  to  her  meant  only  the  reiteration  of  care- free  hours, 
the  constant  recurrence  of  pleasure.  All  this  she  had  at 
tained  in  her  life  with  West.  He  stood  for  that  irre 
sponsibility  which  was  to  her  the  breath  of  life.  She 
found  in  his  varying,  superficial  moods  the  atmosphere  in 
which  her  nature  thrived,  as  a  flower  thrives  in  the  sun 
light. 

Now  she  was  jealous  of  this  new  ambition  which  en 
tered  into  their  relationship.  She  resented  its  intrusion 
as  she  would  have  resented  the  intrusion  of  another 
woman.  It  became  in  her  eyes  a  tangible  thing  standing 
between  them  and  forcing  them  apart.  It  was  not  the 
actual  greatness  of  West  she  feared:  it  was  the  idea  of 
it  that  he  believed  in.  She  did  not  credit  the  possibility 
of  his  ultimate  greatness,  nor  would  she  have  recognized 
the  unmistakable  signs  of  it  had  they  been  exhibited  to 
her.  Greatness  and  intimacy  could  never  exist  simulta 
neously  in  her  mind.  Greatness  lay  somewhere  beyond 
the  confines  of  personal  intercourse,  in  a  world  which 
for  her  would  ever  remain  idealistic.  She  could  not  vis 
ualize  West's  transformation  from  a  warm-hearted,  gay 
youth  to  that  awe-impelling  and  impenetrable  figure 
which  symbolized  greatness.  But  even  had  she  granted 
to  herself  the  possibility  of  such  a  metamorphosis,  she 
would  have  fought  against  it.  She  could  not  understand 
greatness:  its  enormity  subdued  her.  She  preferred  the 
understandable,  the  encompassable.  Therefore  she  com 
bated  West's  belief  in  himself. 

"I  want  you  just  as  you  are,  dear,"  she  repeated.    "I 


102       \ :  :  TBE-  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

don't  want  anything  in  the  world  to  take  you  away  from 


me." 


West  endeavoured  to  compromise. 

"It  wouldn't  mean  for  all  the  time,"  he  returned  gently. 
"Only  a  little  of  the  time.  We  would  be  together  a  great 
deal." 

Again  she  felt  the  presence  of  an  intangible  interloper 
that  was  competing  with  her  love.  A  hot  wave  of  jeal 
ousy  ran  through  her.  The  emotion  was  new,  and  it 
troubled  her.  She  had  known  jealousy  before;  only  now 
she  could  not  put  her  hand  on  the  object  of  it,  though 
she  realized  that  it  was  as  powerful  as  an  animate  thing. 

"You  love — something,  more  than  you  do  me/'  was 
all  she  could  say.  She  was  frightened,  for  she  felt  the 
presence  of  a  ghost. 

The  boy  could  not  understand.  Her  supple  hands  were 
moving  slowly  up  and  down  his  back,  pressing  him  here 
and  there  as  they  paused  in  their  aimless  search.  She 
was  crying  bitterly,  and  her  breast  rose  and  fell  against 
him.  He  stroked  her  hair,  running  his  ringers  through  it 
gently.  His  hand  fell  to  her  neck  and  he  pressed  his 
palm  to  it. 

The  clock  struck,  and  he  glanced  up.  In  five  minutes 
he  was  due  at  a  class.  His  thesis  wa's  written,  and  to-day 
he  was  to  read  it.  His  mark  for  the  quarter  would  be 
based  on  it.  If  he  shirked  now,  it  meant  a  failure  and 
disgrace  in  his  father's  eyes.  The  man's  letter  swam  be 
fore  him.  Certain  phrases  in  it,  gentle  and  pregnant  with 
love,  repeated  themselves  in  his  brain.  The  hand  of  the 
little  clock  was  moving.  Firmly  and  tenderly  he  lifted 
the  girl's  arms  from  round  him.  .  ' 

She  knew  that  the  ghost  was  taking  him  away.  She 
wanted  to  cry  out  in  a  jealous  rage,  but  she  realized  that 
her  invisible  rival  could  not  hear.  She  was  overcome 
with  a  sense  of  impotency.  She  watched  West  go  to  his 
desk  and  put  a  manuscript  in  his  pocket.  She  stood  mo- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  103 

tionless,  inert,  her  eyes  following  him.  He  came  toward 
her  with  outstretched  arms. 

"It  won't  be  long/'  he  said,  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

The  length  of  time  he  would  be  away  meant  nothing 
to  her.  Were  it  only  for  five  minutes  it  would  mean 
her  defeat.  That  mysterious,  unseen  antagonist  was  tri 
umphing'.  That  was  all  she  could  understand.  Suddenly 
her  arms  were  about  him,  and  she  was  holding  to  him 
with  all  her  strength. 

"You  can't  go,  dear  .  .  .  you  can't  go.  Listen  to 
me !  ...  You  musn't  go !"  She  was  crying  hysterically. 
Her  voice  was  broken  with  convulsive  breathing.  "If 
you  go  it  means  that  I  have  lost  you.  You've  got  to  stay 
with  me  now.  ...  If  you  love  me  you  won't  leave  me. 
I  can't  let  you  go.  Don't  you  know — it  would  break  my 
heart?  If  you  go  ...  you  don't  love  me.  Oh,  dear 
heart,  tell  me — show  me  you  love  me."  She  ran  on 
brokenly,  repeating  her  entreaties,  sobbing  and  choking 
on  her  rapid  words.  Then  she  drew  West's  head  down 
and  covered  his  face  with  wild  kisses,  babbling  incoher 
ently  of  her  love. 

The  boy  was  nonplussed.  He  could  not  read  the  real 
fear  behind  her  entreaties.  Her  manner  frightened  him, 
but  her  kisses  went  through  him  like  fire.  Her  weak 
ness  filled  him  with  a  great  tenderness. 

Suddenly  she  fell  on  her  knees,  still  clinging  to  him. 

"You  can't  go !  ...  Dear,  you  mustn't  go."  Her  voice 
was  almost  a  moan  now.  Her  hysteria  had  exhausted 
her. 

West  looked  at  her,  dazed.  He  had  never  before  seen 
her  like  this,  broken  and  humble.  Something  tightened 
at  his  throat.  The  girl's  humility  overpowered  him.  The 
shaking,  crumpled  body  at  his  feet  became  something  ir 
resistibly  pitiful,  something  infinitely  sacred. 

Bending  over,  he  lifted  her  in  his  arms.  Then  he 
placed  her  in  a  low  chair,  and  kneeling  by  her,  drew 
down  her  head.  His  mouth  was  on  her  throat. 


104  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"You  are  everything  in  the  world " 

But  all  words  were  empty  now,  meaningless  and  ir 
relevant.  His  lips  moved  across  her  throat,  and  their 
mouths  met  in  a  blind,  stifling  kiss.  An  intolerable  flame 
enveloped  him,  burning  his  breath  away.  What  was  this 
strange  piercing  pain?  Shuddering  and  afraid,  he 
clutched  the  girl  to  him.  Now  he  was  all  instinct:  it 
was  so  powerful  that  nothing  in  the  world  could  have 
taken  him  from  her. 


XII 

SPRING  came  and  flourished  into  summer.  The  holi 
days  were  approaching,  and  Stanford  West  began  to 
dread  the  meeting  with  his  father.  Except  for  the  first 
few  months  his  year  had  profited  him  little.  He  had 
been  promoted  only  conditionally,  and  in  his  father's 
eyes  it  would  spell  failure.  West  knew  the  failure  was 
his  own  fault.  There  was  no  extenuation  to  offer  the  si 
lent  man  whose  gentle  eyes  would  reproach  him  tenderly. 
The  boy  knew  he  could  never  bring  himself  to  give  the 
reason  for  his  failure.  Yet  he  had  a  premonition  Joseph 
West  would  guess  his  secret.  That  would  heighten  the 
agony  of  his  shame.  There  would  then  be  something 
between  them,  something  they  both  understood,  but 
which  neither  would  mention.  And  that  silent  barrier 
would  be  less  tolerable  than  an  open  breach. 

As  he  forecast  the  summer  a  pang  of  anger  stabbed 
him — Danger  at  the  world,  at  the  irrational  process  of  life. 
His  conscience  did  not  charge  the  girl  with  the  disgrace 
which  her  love  had  brought  upon  him.  It  had  not  been 
her  fault.  He  felt  only  tenderness  at  the  thought  of  her. 
She  was  the  weaker,  and  he  need  never  have  seen  her 
after  that  first  night.  But  he  had  wanted  her.  He  h#d 
remained  voluntarily.  And  he  had  gone  back  to  her 
day  after  day,  without  being  bidden.  The  blame  was  his. 
Had  he  not  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her?  And 
had  he  not  assumed  thereby  a  duty  to  feed  the  love  he 
had  kindled?  The  guilt  lay  within  himself.  His  own 
desires  and  weaknesses  had  led  him  on  and  on  into  the 
path  of  waste  and  negligence  and  inaction.  Of  his  own 
free  will  he  had  mortgaged  his  future  for  the  sake  of  his 

105 


io6  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

desires.  Now  he  must  pay,  and  he  admitted  the  justice 
of  the  settlement. 

But  there  was  still  another  year  before  him.  Things 
would  be  different  then.  It  would  be  possible  to  recoup 
his  losses,  for  he  possessed  an  instinct  and  a  facility  for 
learning.  It  might  mean  hard  work,  but  there  was  no 
other  alternative.  Other  men  had  done  it,  and  what 
other  men  could  do,  he  could  do.  Perhaps  this  year  of 
drifting  had  been  for  the  best :  at  least,  it  had  taught  him 
much.  He  would  rise  from  the  sodden  bed  of  this  year, 
exalted  and  renewed.  Already  the  fever  of  accomplish 
ment  was  on  him.  He  wished  the  autumn  were  not  so 
far  away. 

June  came.  The  electric  excitement  which  charges  a 
university's  atmosphere  at  the  close  of  the  year  vibrated 
through  the  student  body.  West,  insulated  by  failure, 
was  no  part  of  it.  He  was  an  outsider,  forgotten  and  ig 
nored.  But  it  took  hold  on  him  and  set  his  pulses  thump 
ing.  For  the  first  time  in  eight  months  his  spirit  reacted 
to  the  turbulence  of  the  world  of  action.  Pennants 
waved.  Bands  of  singing  students  walked  swiftly  by 
him.  Lanterns  beaded  the  campus.  Men  shouted  to  one 
another.  Flowers  and  bunting  appeared  about  the  build 
ings.  And  over  all  was  a  joyful  restlessness,  a  constant 
staccato  of  feet,  a  hubbub  of  gay  voices,  a  rattling  of 
carriages.  It  was  all  a  celebration  of  triumph  and 
achievement,  of  difficulties  overcome.  And  because  it 
meant  this,  it  tortured  West's  soul.  But  there  was  no 
resignation  in  his  heart.  His  blood  flowed  eagerly. 
Next  year! 

But  that  evening,  beneath  the  kisses  of  Irene  Brenner, 
the  heyday  of  life  was  swept  away.  Below  in  the  street 
he  could  hear  the  noisy  students ;  but  once  again  he  was 
outside  the  gates  of  the  world.  His  grief  at  thought  of 
parting  from  the  girl  was  greater  than  had  been  his  ambi 
tion  of  the  afternoon.  But  separation  was  inevitable. 
She  was  going  south  to  spend  the  summer  with  relatives. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  107 

He  had  no  choice  but  to  return  to  Greenwood.  They  as 
sured  each  other  that  the  summer  would  pass  quickly, 
that,  when  the  autumn  brought  them  together  again,  they 
would  be  all  the  more  desirous  of  each  other  because  of 
their  privation. 

West  was  the  first  to  go.  He  had  scarcely  spoken  that 
day.  Several  times  he  had  attempted  to  say  something, 
but  all  speech  was  a  falsity.  As  he  looked  back  from 
the  rear  platform  of  the  moving  train,  he  saw  the  girl 
clinging  to  the  iron  posts  of  the  gate,  her  head  hung  for 
ward  on  her  breast.  A  sudden  hot  mist  in  his  eyes  blot 
ted  her  from  his  sight,  and  in  that  moment  he  knew  there 
was  nothing  in  life  more  precious  to  him  than  the  miracle 
of  her  body. 

After  a  week  at  home — a  week  of  brooding,  of  accus 
ing  silences,  of  strained  silences,  of  unpleasant  avoidances 
— there  arrived  a  letter  from  Seminoff.  He  was  free  for 
the  summer.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  city. 
He  was  lonely,  and  he  had  thought  much  of  his  old 
friend.  He  thought  they  might  be  together  until  the 
University  reopened — a  walking  tour  perhaps,  or  maybe 
a  camp  in  the  Adirondacks.  West  had  many  reasons  for 
eagerly  grasping  at  the  suggestion.  He  felt  the  need  of 
SeminofFs  practical  personality.  He  wanted  to  ease  his 
mind  by  escaping  the  silences  of  home  life.  He  wished 
to  shake  the  loneliness  of  Greenwood  from  his  system. 
And  finally  he  desired  to  avoid  a  farcical  renewal  of  his 
relationship  with  Alice  Carlisle  who  would  return  to 
Greenwood  the  following  week. 

In  response  to  West's  eager  acceptance  Seminoff  joined 
him  at  Albany,  and  the  two  headed  for  the  woods  and 
lakes  of  Saratoga.  Three  days  later,  after  a  tiring  search 
for  a  secluded  camp,  they  rented  a  small  tent  on  the  green 
bank  of  an  almost  deserted  estuary  which  poured  into  the 
upper  end  of  Ballston  Lake.  Here,  shut  off  from  the 
world,  they  installed  themselves.  They  were  a  mile  from 
the  nearest  camp,  two  miles  from  the  nearest  store,  but 


io8  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

their  isolation  suited  them  well.  They  were  eager  for 
each  other's  company  and  for  the  tasks  they  had  planned 
together.  Books  had  been  brought,  and  Seminoff  had  in 
sisted  on  West's  taking  his  unfinished  manuscripts.  All 
about  them  was  the  density  of  trees.  Opposite,  across  the 
narrow  head  of  the  lake,  wooded  heights,  primeval  and 
silent,  stretched  north  and  south.  Rarely  did  a  boat 
penetrate  as  far  as  their  retreat. 

Something  in  the  solitude  of  these  new  surroundings 
revived  in  West  his  old  desires.  Here,  isolated  and 
apart,  he  could  look  upon  his  life  impartially.  He  re 
viewed  the  events  of  the  past  year  and  was  sickened  with 
himself.  He  and  Seminoff  talked  avidly  for  hours  at  a 
time,  arguing  and  judging,  praising  and  condemning. 
Once  again  the  world  of  erudition,  which  had  faded  from 
West  during  the  past  months,  came  back  with  all  its 
splendid  appeal,  its  unsolved  problems,  its  challenge  and 
its  hope,  its  sublime  legacies  of  beauty  and  great  deeds. 
It  called  to  him  as  it  had  done  once  before,  and  he  went 
to  work  with  zest. 

The  poetic  drama  he  had  begun  two  years  before  had 
been  brought  forth.  As  he  read  the  uncompleted  frag 
ment,  an  old  familiar  thrill  passed  through  him.  He 
wrote.  At  first  the  task  was  difficult.  The  engines  of 
his  brain  seemed  to  have  grown  rusty  through  desuetude. 
But  as  the  days  went  by,  the  immobility  of  thought  and 
utterance  vanished.  He  became  conscious  once  more  of 
his  old  fluidity.  Again  he  caught  the  spirit  of  the  ancient 
world.  His  mind  became  actively  antagonistic  to  the 
dogmas  of  his  day.  He  wrote  on  and  on,  bringing  into 
living  form  the  spirit  of  a  dead  and  forgotten  classicism. 
Each  night  he  showed  his  friend  what  he  had  written; 
and  together  they  talked  of  the  genius  of  Greece,  of  that 
clean  beauty  of  olden  times,  of  the  rich  and  lucid  culture 
which  once  more  was  to  be  bodied  forth  in  the  pages  of 
West's  work. 

Week    followed   week.      West   worked    ardently,    in- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  109 

tensely.  The  book  grew.  Seminoff  encouraged  him, 
looked  after  him,  and  in  the  evening  waited  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  till  physical  fatigue  would  bring  the  other 
forth.  West  became  conscious  of  his  destiny.  He  re 
gained  his  belief  in  himself,  in  his  ideals,  in  the  sublime 
mission  of  his  life. 

The  summer  passed  quickly.  Almost  within  a  week 
of  departure  the  drama  was  finished.  West  was  over 
joyed  at  its  accomplishment.  He  was  aware  of  the 
book's  power.  He  knew  that  in  a  measure  he  had  accom 
plished  what  he  had  set  out  to  do.  The  battle  against 
the  tawdriness  of  modern  literary  thought  had  been  won. 
He  had  done  something  new.  He  had  made  a  distinct 
contribution  to  the  letters  of  his  time.  He  had  clearly 
conceived  his  project  and  he  had  executed  it  competently. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  great :  he  did  not  hope  for  so  much  at 
present.  But  it  was  not  in  the  beaten  path.  It  breathed 
a  new  ideal.  In  a  world  of  democratic  compromises  it 
voiced  the  culture  of  aristocracy :  it  possessed  the  divine 
power  of  individualism.  He  could  not  help  but  believe 
that  its  merit  would  be  recognized  and  acclaimed.  Surely 
the  strength  of  its  thought,  the  purity  of  its  doctrine  and 
the  beauty  of  its  theme  would  be  felt  and  acknowledged. 

After  three  days  of  rest  West  returned  to  Greenwood 
to  make  his  final  preparations  for  his  last  year  at  the 
University.  His  parting  with  Seminoff  pained  him.  The 
loss  of  his  friend,  whose  presence  this  summer  had  meant 
so  much,  left  him  with  a  feeling  of  vacancy,  of  insecurity. 
There  was  no  one  to  whom  he  might  turn,  no  one  to 
whom  he  might  unburden  himself.  Power  seemed  to 
leave  him. 

But  the  day  after  the  parting  there  came  a  letter  from 
Seminoff.  "There  are  things  I  could  not  say  to  you  this 
summer,"  it  ran.  "Forgive  me  for  writing  them  now, 
but  I  feel  I  must  say  them.  You  had  changed  when  I 
saw  you  in  June.  Something  had  gone  from  you.  You 
had  lost  a  bit  of  your  old  forcefulness,  of  the  fine  ardour 


[no  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

that  inspirited  you.  Your  eyes  were  not  so  sure;  your 
mind  was  less  keen.  There  was  absent  that  splendid  ro 
bustness  of  soul  which  once  made  my  faith  in  you  what 
it  was.  Perhaps  I  have  guessed  the  reason  for  this 
spiritual  deterioration.  I  don't  know,  nor  do  I  ask  you 
to  tell  me.  But  you  have,  for  some  cause,  been  untrue 
to  yourself.  For  a  year  you  have  written  nothing. 
When  I  learned  of  your  sterility,  it  shocked  me.  Am  I 
saying  too  much?  Will  you  understand  me?  It  is  be 
cause  I  know  what  the  future  holds  for  you  that  I  risk 
your  friendship  by  writing  thus.  You  have  proved  your 
vital  worth  this  summer.  You  have  accomplished  a  fine 
and  vigorous  feat.  If  you  will,  you  can  give  a  new  im 
petus  to  the  art  of  your  day.  The  material  is  in  you: 
you  alone  can  turn  your  gifts  to  success  or  failure.  The 
vision  is  yours.  A  benign  fate  has  set  you  outside  the 
cramping,  insufficient  thought  that  governs  our  modern 
literature  with  its  puny  ideals,  its  snivelling  democracy, 
its  specious  sycophancy.  And  that  same  fate  has 
equipped  you  with  the  power  to  actualize  your  vision. 
Perhaps  there  are  other  men  who  have  dreamed  of  Jhe 
resuscitation  of  Hellenic  ideals  and  of  the  embodiment  of 
genuine  classic  culture  in  our  literature;  and  perhaps 
there  are  men  whose  creative  faculties  and  technical  skill 
are  capable  of  bringing  back  to  our  art  the  great  clear 
viewpoint  of  antiquity.  But  in  you  is  the  rare  combina 
tion  of  vision  and  instinct  and  moulding  capacity,  which 
can  make  possible  that  renaissance  in  which  we  both  be 
lieve.  Your  work  of  the  summer  has  proved  it.  It  is  not 
final;  we  both  know  that:  but  it  is  the  beginning.  You 
are  incredibly  young  to  have  done  even  as  much  as  you 
have.  Remember  your  possibilities.  Remember,  too, 
that  you  are  fighting  generations  of  cant  and  false  ideals. 
The  world  will  not  thank  you.  It  will  endeavour  to 
break  you.  The  path  is  lonely,  but  it  leads  high.  Let  no 
one  stand  in  your  way.  And,  above  all,  do  not  forget 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  in 

that  women  are  the  great  conservatives,  unconscious  and 
unknowing.  Make  them  your  foes." 

West  read  the  letter  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  hope 
and  guilt.  Seminoff  knew  the  truth  of  his  wasted  year, 
and  the  fact  shamed  him.  Yet  he  was  moved  by  the 
letter.  It  aroused  him  to  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
prowess.  It  gave  him  back  that  faith  in  himself  which 
he  had  begun  to  lose.  He  returned  to  the  University 
contrite  and  audacious,  filled  with  high  resolve.  Irene 
Brenner  had  not  returned.  Her  uncle  had  died,  and  she 
had  to  remain  for  a  time  with  her  aunt.  West,  though 
he  suffered  from  loneliness,  welcomed  the  delay.  Now 
he  could  carry  out  his  plans  for  the  year  without  the 
powerful  opposition  of  the  girl's  presence.  Despite  his 
resolve,  he  did  not  wholly  trust  himself.  He  knew  her 
power  over  him,  and  he  admitted  the  possibility  of  his 
eventual  subjugation  to  that  power.  He  was  glad  to 
be  spared  for  a  time  the  ordeal  of  the  test. 

He  made  several  copies  of  his  drama.  One  he  offered 
to  a  publisher.  Others  he  sent  with  letters  to  two  of  the 
foremost  figures  in  modern  English  literature.  He  ad 
mired  both  of  these  older  men,  and  begged  them  for 
an  opinion  of  his  work.  The  publisher  returned  his 
manuscript  with  a  formal  note  of  rejection.  Slightly 
discouraged,  but  buoyed  up  by  SeminofFs  letter,  he  tried 
another  publisher.  Then  there  came  an  answer  from  one 
of  the  men  whose  criticism  he  had  asked.  It  was  frankly 
encouraging. 

"You  have  done  a  splendid  thing,"  it  began.  "You 
have  aimed  high  and  you  have  far  from  failed.  I  feel  a 
new  breath  in  what  you  have  written,  and  I  congratulate 
you  on  what  you  say  is  your  first  effort — although  I  find 
it  difficult  to  believe  that  such  can  be  the  case.  I  un 
derstand  what  you  are  striving  for  and  the  ideas  you 
voice,  while  not  in  perfect  accord  with  my  thoughts  and 
sympathies,  are  admirably  conceived  and  set  forth.  I 
presume  that  you  are  very  young;  but  this  is  to  your 


ii2  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

credit.  Perhaps  you  overestimate  the  mediocrity  of  mod 
ern  ideals,  but  that  does  not  keep  me  from  admiring 
your  success  in  stating  what  you  believe  to  be  a  pure 
culture.  I  am  quite  honest  when  I  say  that  I  look  for 
ward  to  seeing  other  things  of  yours.  A  man  of  your 
talent  and  courage  is  destined  for  something  compelling 
and  worth  while.  I  wish  you  every  success,  and  again 
offer  you  my  sincerest  congratulations." 

West  experienced  a  sensation  of  geninue  pleasure  at 
this  recognition  from  so  high  a  source.  The  man  who 
wrote  the  words  was  not  great,  but  his  erudition  and 
sincerity  had  placed  him  in  the  forefront  of  the  literature 
of  his  country;  and  his  criticism  meant  much.  It  was 
West's  first  taste  of  authoritative  praise,  and  it  strength 
ened  his  confidence.  He  waited  eagerly  now  for  the  an 
swer  to  his  other  letter.  The  second  critic  was  a  much 
older  man.  His  days  of  productivity  were  over,  but  his 
influence  still  moulded  the  efforts  of  the  younger  gener 
ation.  At  length  there  came  a  note,  short,  unenthusias- 
tic,  even  petulant;  but  there  was  praise  in  it,  and  un 
derstanding.  It  told  West  he  had  far  to  go,  but  that  he 
was  on  the  right  path.  "The  germ  is  there — the  vitaliz 
ing  instinct.  Time  alone  will  show  whether  you  have 
sufficient  intellectual  energy  to  carry  your  ideals  to  fulfil 
ment." 

West  could  have  wished  for  no  more.  If  time  were 
all,  he  need  have  no  fear.  He  faced  the  future  with  that 
interior  serenity  which  once  had  been  part  of  his  person 
ality. 

Encouraged  by  these  two  appreciations,  he  decided  to 
submit  his  drama  to  one  of  the  University  professors  for 
whom  he  had  always  had  respect.  The  irascible  little 
man  was  unlike  his  fellows  on  the  faculty  board.  To 
West  he  had  always  appeared,  intellectually,  very  little 
of  a  professor.  If  any  one  in  the  University  would  ap 
preciate  what  he  had  done,  it  would  be  this  man.  One 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  113 

night  West  climbed  the  long  stairs  which  led  to  the  pro 
fessor's  room  and  knocked. 

"Why  should  I  be  burdened  with  your  efforts?"  the 
man  asked,  in  answer  to  West's  request.  He  came  barely 
to  West's  shoulders,  and  his  tiny  tapering  body  seemed 
too  fragile  to  support  his  huge,  bulging  head. 

"You  are  the  only  man  in  the  University  to  whom  I 
would  care  to  show  it,  whose  opinion  I  would  wish  to 
have.  You  and  I  are  different  from  the  rest."  West 
looked  into  his  sharp,  brown  eyes. 

"Come  in,"  the  little  man  ordered  kindly.  He  was 
conscious  of  some  intellectual  kinship  between  them,  of 
some  psychic  understanding  which  words  could  not  ex 
plain. 

"You  tried  to  reform  the  institution  once,  I  believe," 
he  began  when  they  were  seated.  There  was  a  faint  smile 
on  his  lips. 

West  did  not  reply,  and  the  little  man  added:  "A 
thankless  task.  It  can  never  be  done." 

"It  wasn't  the  failure  I  minded,"  the  young  man  put 
in.  "It  was  the  stupidity  of  the  opposition.  No  one  rec 
ognized  the  cleanliness  of  the  ideal  I  set  forth." 

"There  was  one,"  corrected  the  other  enigmatically. 
"But  intelligence  is  lonely.  Its  altitudes  are  too  rare  for 
the  many.  The  intellectual  aristocrat  must  turn  his  back 
on  the  world.  The  valour  of  the  great  man  makes  it  pos 
sible  for  him  to  endure  what  the  common  man  would 
shrink  from.  Culture — that  is,  the  things  you  once 
pleaded  for — can  never  be  the  property  of  the  masses. 
The  instinct  for  culture  is  a  need :  and  the  masses  need 
only  the  ugly,  primitive  and  ephemeral  things." 

"That  lesson  I  have  learned  well."  West  looked  at  the 
little  man,  and  regretted  he  had  never  come  here  before. 
"You  will  understand  how  well  I  have  learned  it  when 
you  read  my  drama.  I  have  tried  to  voice  a  new  culture 
— uncontaminated  by  democratic  considerations,  one 
which  must  ever  be  beyond  popular  comprehension. 


ii4  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Perhaps  some  day  the  people  may  be  made  to  serve  the 
culture  despite  their  inability  to  understand  it;  just  as 
we  all  serve  nature  without  comprehending  her.  That 
was  the  old  classic  ideal.  There's  no  reason  why  it  might 
not  be  revived." 

"It  might,  provided  there  should  be  born  a  man  with 
both  the  intelligence  and  the  power."  The  little  profes 
sor  lighted  a  brown  cigarette.  "He  must  be  sufficiently 
forceful  and  clear-sighted  to  influence  others  who  have 
the  creative  talent.  Goethe  was  the  last  great  force  in 
the  struggle  for  intellectual  nobility.  But  now  other 
ideals  are  coming  in ;  there  is  no  one  to-day  to  carry  on 
the  aristocratic  tradition."  He  glanced  at  the  clock,  and 
arose.  "Drop  in  Friday  night  at  nine.  I  always  have  a 
little  causerie  then.  In  the  meantime  I'll  read  your 
drama." 

West  returned  Friday.  There  were  many  of  the  older 
students  present.  As  he  entered,  the  voices  ceased  and 
the  little  professor  arose  from  the  fire  and  came  forward 
with  extended  hand. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  addressing  those  present,  "this 
is  Mr.  Stanford  West,  our  guest  of  honour.  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  this  week  of  reading  a  most  unusual  compo 
sition  from  his  pen.  And  some  day,  gentlemen,  mark 
my  words,  his  name  will  be  one  of  honour  and  distinc 
tion  in  the  world  of  letters." 

Before  West  could  answer  him,  he  had  reseated  him 
self  at  the  fire  and  was  talking  of  other  things. 


XIII 

THE  bleakness  of  November  had  desolated  the  world 
when  Irene  Brenner  returned.  For  two  months  West 
had  worked  diligently.  He  had  assumed  a  large  amount 
of  conditional  work,  and  had  set  himself  the  task  of  re 
gaining  the  ground  lost  the  previous  year.  He  had  been 
too  busy  to  be  lonely;  his  spirits  had  been  too  high  to 
permit  of  melancholy.  He  was  again  acquiring  the  habit 
of  study,  and  his  actions  were  animated  by  a  steady 
strengthening  ambition  to  bring  his  university  work  to  a 
successful  close.  He  had  even  welcomed  the  solitude 
which  the  absence  of  Irene  Brenner  had  imposed  on  him, 
and  began  to  distrust  more  and  more  her  approaching  ar 
rival.  But  withal  there  was  a  strong  conflict  in  his  heart. 
He  yearned  for  the  girl,  and  experienced  hours  of  dis 
tressing  grief;  yet  he  knew  he  was  better  off  without  her. 
And  so  strong  was  his  new  resolve  that,  had  the  decision 
been  his,  he  would  have  continued  their  separation. 

There  was  cowardice  in  his  attitude:  this  he  did  not 
deny  to  himself.  He  feared  the  influence  the  girl  exerted 
on  him.  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  solve  the  problem  in 
the  way  which  was  best  for  him.  Could  he  subordinate 
his  desire  to  his  ambitions?  Could  he  resist  the  de 
mands  she  would  make  upon  his  time?  Could  he  escape 
those  arms  which  would  reach  out  each  night  from  the 
city  and  endeavour  to  draw  him  to  its  heart?  Could  he 
forgo  those  quiet,  luxurious  hours  which  had  already 
eaten  so  deep  into  his  soul? 

There  had  been  times  during  these  two  months  when 
that  mellow,  listless  life  had  seemed  entirely  dissociated 
from  his  being,  like  something  dead  and  buried  which  no 
longer  had  power  to  arouse  a  response  in  him.  But  there 

"5 


n6  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

had  been  other  times  when  he  could  feel  that  sweet,  sod 
den  atmosphere  wart  through  him  and  set  his  body  vi 
brating.  He  experienced  this  last  sensation  when  he  read 
Irene  Brenner's  letter  saying  she  was  hurrying  to  him. 
His  pulses  leaped  at  her  words.  His  mind  reached  out 
to  envisage  her.  His  resolve  weakened;  and  his  whole 
body  burned  with  expectation.  In  that  moment  he  knew 
that  she  would  win,  that  his  hopes  would  crumble  at  her 
touch,  that  her  full  lips  would  draw  from  him  every  ves 
tige  of  the  sublime  power  which  had  been  his  during  the 
summer. 

As  soon  as  she  had  come  he  hastened  to  her,  oblivious 
to  all  save  the  encircling  temple  of  her  arms.  Hope  of 
victory  was  abandoned  in  the  wanton  joy  of  being  with 
her  once  more.  For  a  week  he  made  no  effort  to  continue 
his  work.  He  submerged  himself  in  the  ecstasies  of  his 
old  care-free  life,  mesmerized  by  the  sensuality,  the  col 
our,  the  rush,  the  beauty,  the  rapture  of  it.  The  days 
went  swiftly;  all  effort  and  endeavour  were  forgot.  Then 
suddenly  his  excesses  brought  on  the  lassitude  of  physical 
reaction.  One  morning,  as  he  stood  alone,  looking  out 
upon  the  desolate  street,  a  change  came  over  him.  Before 
him  lay  the  world,  grey,  cruel  and  implacable — a  world 
old  and  terrible,  like  an  unconquered  warrior.  West  felt 
the  silent  challenge  of  it;  and  memories  of  his  summer 
came  back  to  him.  There  was  a  battle  to  be  fought  and 
won  out  there  in  the  bleak  eternal  distances.  Banners 
waved  in  his  heart,  and  he  could  feel  the  blaring  trumpets 
in  his  blood.  He  remembered  the  letter  of  Seminoff  and 
the  words  of  the  little  professor.  Once  more  he  was 
conscious  of  his  destiny. 

Dressing  hurriedly,  he  took  his  note-book  and  went  to 
a  lecture.  That  afternoon  he  returned  to  his  own  room 
and  worked  till  twilight.  Then  he  returned  to  Irene 
Brenner. 

She  was  in  a  sullen  rage.  "Why  did  you  leave  me  the 
way  you  did?"  she  asked  him.  "Without  a  word!" 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  117 

"I  had  my  work  to  do,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"Is  it  more  important  than  I  am?"  Her  tone  was 
colder  than  West  had  ever  heard  it  before.  It  made  his 
position  easier.  He  could  withstand  her  opposition.  It 
was  her  tenderness  he  feared. 

"My  work  must  be  done,"  he  answered  in  an  even, 
steady  tone.  "This  is  my  last  year ;  if  I  fail  now  it  means 
disgrace.  Surely  you  can  see  that." 

"I  can  only  see,"  came  the  girl's  angry  retort,  "that  you 
put  your  work  before  me." 

"That  isn't  so,"  the  boy  answered  resentfully.  "It's 
not  a  question  of  first  or  second.  We  will  be  together 
all  the  time,  except  when  my  work's  to  be  done.  I  should 
think  you  would  want  me  to  succeed.  I  failed  last  year 
because  I  wanted  you  so  much  that  I  couldn't  bear  being 
away  from  you.  But  now  you've  got  to  help  me,  for  this 
is  my  last  chance." 

"Help  you?"  The  girl  laughed  ironically.  "And  what 
of  me?  Am  I  to  wait  here  alone  all  day  while  you  are 
at  classes,  and  then  at  night  sit  with  my  arms  folded 
while  you're  studying?" 

Stanford  West  watched  the  girl  narrowly:  he  had 
never  seen  her  in  this  mood.  A  flush  of  anger  crept  over 
his  body.  The  girl  meant  less  to  him  at  this  moment 
than  ever  before.  She  had  chosen  to  assume  the  role  of 
an  open  antagonist,  and  it  aroused  his  opposition.  He 
did  not  fear  her  so  long  as  she  defied  him.  Only  when 
she  pleaded  with  him  and  wept  did  he  become  power 
less.  The  girl  before  him  was  now  his  foe,  just  as  the 
student  body  had  once  been  his  foe.  At  the  thought 
all  his  dormant  aggressiveness  came  to  the  surface. 

"If  you  loved  me,"  he  said  resolutely,  "you  wouldn't 
want  to  see  me  fail." 

"What  do  such  things  matter?"  She  spoke  with  irri 
tation  and  indifference. 

West  was  finding  it  difficult  to  control  himself. 

"It  matters  a  great  deal.     Some  day  you  shall  see. 


ii 8  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Two  of  the  greatest  men  living  have  told  me  I  shall  some 
day  do  great  things." 

The  girl  laughed  scornfully. 

"Why  should  you  do  great  things?"  she  taunted  him. 
"Are  you  so  different — so  superior  to  everyone  else?" 
Her  expression  changed.  "You're  making  excuses  to 
be  away  from  me.  You're  tired  of  me.  Perhaps  you've 
found  someone  else." 

"That's  a  lie,  and  you  know  it !"  West  was  struggling 
with  a  fierce  resentment  which  her  words  had  awak 
ened.  His  anger  grew.  All  tenderness  for  the  girl  dis 
appeared.  He  regarded  her  critically,  coldly.  For  the  first 
time  he  saw  clearly  her  shallowness  and  vanity,  her 
overwhelming  concern  in  her  own  interests.  And  yet  the 
realization  of  her  unworthiness  did  not  affect  his  infatu 
ation  for  her.  The  appeal  of  her  beauty  was  as  powerful 
as  ever.  This  fact  increased  his  resentment ;  it  made  her 
more  truly  his  enemy.  He  almost  hated  her  for  the  very 
reason  that  she  meant  so  much  to  him.  It  was  a  new 
emotion,  and  because  he  could  not  understand  it,  his  bit 
terness  became  almost  unbearable.  He  felt  that  he  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  terrible  and  mysterious  danger, 
whose  very  unf amiliarity  gave  it  a  sinister  aspect. 

She  laughed  harshly  again. 

"After  all,  what  could  I  expect?"  she  asked  with  mock 
resignation.  "You're  like  all  the  rest.  You've  got  what 
you  wanted.  Now  suddenly,  when  you're  tired,  you  re 
member  your  work;  you  think  of  your  future.  Do  you 
imagine  that  deceives  me?"  She  rose  and  went  to  the 
mirror,  where  she  began  to  arrange  her  hair.  "Why 
don't  you  tell  me  the  truth  .  .  .  say  you've  had  enough  ? 
Haven't  you  the  courage  ?  .  .  .  Why  this  flimsy  compro 
mise — this  beating  round  the  bush?  ...  It  doesn't  im 
press  me,  and  it  doesn't  deceive  me.  I  see  through  the 
cowardice  of  it." 

Her  taunting  voice  stabbed  West  like  a  knife.  All  his 
emotions  coalesced  and  resolved  themselves  into  a  single 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  119 

overwhelming  unit  of  anger.  The  injustice  of  her  words 
infuriated  him  till  he  regarded  her  no  longer  merely  as 
a  girl,  but  as  a  towering  oppositional  force,  a  powerful 
dominating  enemy.  She  was  all  women  combined  in  one. 
For  the  moment  his  love  for  her  disappeared  beneath  the 
hot,  driving  torment  of  his  fury.  As  he  watched  her 
standing  before  the  mirror,  he  could  not  associate  her 
with  the  girl  he  loved,  though  physically  she  was  the 
embodiment  of  that  girl.  This  scoffing,  unreasonable 
creature  was  totally  alienated  from  his  affection — a  stran 
ger  who  stood  between  him  and  his  desire.  He  had  only 
an  insensate  disgust  for  her.  He  rose  firmly,  his  fin 
gers  tightened  over  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"You  think  I  wouldn't  have  the  courage  to  tell  you  if 
I  was  tired  of  you?'*  Something  in  his  tone  made  the 
girl  turn  sharply.  "I'd  drop  you  like  that" — he  snapped 
his  fingers.  "You  could  be  damned  for  all  of  me.  Why 
should  I  bother  with  you  if  I  didn't  care?  Would  it 
matter  what  you  thought?  You  could  take  your  ideas 
and  go  to  hell  with  them.  My  life  is  more  important 
than  your  comfort  of  mind.  If  I  hadn't  loved  you,  you 
wouldn't  have  seen  me  again.  You've  given  me  nothing 
I  haven't  given  you.  Why  should  I  attempt  to  appease 
you?  Do  you  think  I'm  impressed  by  the  old  supersti 
tion  that  men  are  to  blame  and  women  are  always  the 
losers?  You  attach  too  much  importance  to  yourself. 
I  came  back  to  you  because  I  still  love  you — as  much 
as  I  ever  did " 

The  girl  interrupted. 

"Love  ?"  she  echoed.  "You  think  you  love  me  ?  You've 
never  loved  me.  You've  simply  made  use  of  my  love 
when  it  suited  your  convenience.  Then  you  tell  me 
I've  been  the  cause  of  your  failure.  Did  you  have  to  fail 
on  my  account?  Did  I  lock  you  up  and  keep  you  from 
your  work  ?  Why  blame  me  for  your  weakness  ?" 

"You  have  the  coldness  to  throw  that  in  my  face?" 
The  shallow  indifference  of  her  attitude  brought  a  hot 


120  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

flush  of  new  anger  to  his  cheeks.  His  eyes  burned,  and  the 
muscles  in  his  arms  and  hands  became  rigid.  Now  for 
the  first  time  he  sensed  her  entire  lack  of  sympathy  in 
his  affairs.  He  had  been  used  for  her  own  ends :  his  desire 
had  been  the  power  by  which  she  had  held  him  in  her 
service.  Still  he  loved  her,  blindly  and  irrevocably. 
Shame  mixed  with  his  anger  and  stifled  him. 

"Why  not?"  The  girl's  colourless  voice  brought  him 
back  to  the  present.  "You  could  always  go  when  you 
chose — just  as  you  did  to-day.  I  don't  blame  you.  It's 
my  own  fault.  Why  should  I  expect  you  to  hold  my  love 
sacred — to  respect  me  after  what  I've  done  for  you? 
You're  all  alike — rotten  to  the  core.  Even  now  you've 
probably  got  another  mistress  waiting  for  you " 

West  stepped  up  to  her,  trembling,  his  breath  coming 
quick  and  noisily.  "Shut  your  mouth!"  he  ordered 
threateningly.  As  he  spoke  his  nerves  steadied :  his 
trembling  ceased.  He  was  no  longer  afraid.  Something 
had  snapped  inside  him,  and  a  great  volume  of  domineer 
ing  power  burst  forth  and  flooded  his  being,  as  water 
rushes  through  a  collapsed  dam. 

The  girl  halted  abruptly,  as  if  the  sudden  change  in 
him  had  been  a  visible  thing.  Her  words  gave  way  to  a 
sneering  smile,  and  she  looked  defiantly  into  his  nar 
rowed  eyes. 

"Take  that  smile  off  your  face !"  A  new  note  of  com 
mand,  steady  and  resonant,  was  in  West's  voice. 

Her  instinct  was  to  obey  him,  but  that  would  have 
been  defeat.  Instead  she  stepped  back  and  gave  a  de 
risive  laugh.  At  the  sound  of  it,  something  reeled  in 
West's  brain :  a  red  fog  passed  into  his  eyes.  His  hand 
swept  forth  in  a  terrific  blow,  and  the  girl,  one  cheek 
burning,  staggered  and  fell  against  the  table. 

"The  next  time  I  tell  you "  he  began. 

But  the  girl  had  turned  on  him  savagely,  striking  out 
with  both  arms.  Again  he  struck  her,  this  time  with 
the  palm  of  his  hand.  She  cried  out,  half  in  anger,  half 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  121 

in  pain.  Then  quickly  she  seized  a  small  bronze  vase 
from  the  table.  But  West  was  upon  her,  raining  blows 
on  her  with  both  hands — hard,  stinging  blows  which 
snapped  and  crackled  like  distant  fire-works.  She 
clutched  his  sleeve  and  impeded  him  for  a  moment.  But 
he  caught  hold  of  her  long  dark  hair  which  was  now 
falling  about  her  shoulders,  and  twisted  it  till  her  head 
bent  back  and  her  grip  relaxed.  She  uttered  a  piercing 
cry,  but  it  only  intensified  the  boy's  violence.  When 
his  arm  was  free  once  more,  he  again  struck  her  sav 
agely  with  his  fist.  He  was  laughing  now,  loudly  and 
hysterically.  The  girl  had  ceased  to  resist.  She  stood 
cowering,  with  arms  locked  before  her  eyes,  making  a 
low,  whimpering  sound  like  a  sick  animal.  Then  she 
collapsed  beneath  one  of  his  blows  and  fell  to  the  floor, 
sending  the  table  and  lamp  crashing  behind  her.  There 
she  lay  sobbing,  dishevelled  and  beaten. 

West  sank  to  a  chair,  his  head  in  his  hands.  His  anger 
was  spent.  A  great  weakness  settled  on  him.  He  sat 
for  some  minutes,  oblivious  to  time,  to  the  noises  in  the 
street,  to  the  sobbing  girl  at  his  side.  Then  he  became 
conscious  of  a  movement  near  him,  of  tentative  hands  on 
his  knees.  He  felt  warm,  soft  fingers  on  his  arm  and  in 
his  hair.  A  broken  voice  whispered  "Dearest"  in  his 
ear,  and  there  was  the  caress  of  loosened  hair  against  his 
cheek.  With  a  cry  he  caught  the  kneeling  girl  in  his 
arms. 


XIV 

FOR  a  week  West  exerted  no  effort  to  return  to  his 
work.  Neither  he  nor  Irene  Brenner  mentioned  the 
quarrel,  but  since  the  episode  their  relationship  had  under 
gone  a  subtle  and  radical  change.  The  girl  was  humbler 
than  before.  She  made  no  demands  on  him;  she  fell  in 
with  all  his  plans ;  she  gave  way  to  all  his  judgments ;  she 
was  solicitous  of  him  and  waited  upon  him.  And  yet, 
despite  the  girl's  subservience,  West  felt  a  new  and  un 
reasoning  obligation  to  protect  her.  A  strong  invisible 
tie  bound  him  to  her.  He  was  more  tender  toward  her; 
and  now  it  was  of  his  own  volition  that  he  sacrificed 
his  work  to  her  happiness.  To  all  appearances  the  vic 
tory  had  been  his.  He  had  subdued  her  by  his  will;  he 
had  dominated  her  by  his  physical  superiority.  And 
she  had  bent  submissively  beneath  that  dominance,  her 
whole  attitude  indicative  of  defeat.  Actually,  however, 
the  victory  was  hers,  for  he  now  gave  her,  without  coer 
cion,  the  very  thing  she  had  tried  to  take  from  him.  So 
completely  had  he  forced  his  will  upon  her  that  he  might 
have  followed  any  inclination  he  chose,  knowing  she 
would  acquiesce  to  his  decision.  He  could  have  gone 
from  her  for  days,  and  she  would  have  awaited  him  in 
submissive  contentment.  But  he  did  not  go. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  shame  of  his  weakness 
overpowered  him.  He  drew  himself  up  resolutely  and 
faced  the  duties  he  had  neglected.  But  he  had  waited 
too  long  to  assert  the  power  he  had  gained  over  the  girl. 
Its  efficacy  had  been  spent  through  his  dalliance,  and 
she  had  already  recognized  the  submerged  weakness 
which  ate  away  at  the  core  of  his  strength.  Having  dis- 

122 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  123 

covered  his  vulnerability,  she  began  to  mistrust  the  power 
of  his  will.  When  at  last  he  asserted  himself  she  op 
posed  him  and  forced  her  demands  upon  him. 

This  time  West  ignored  her  entreaties  and  accusa 
tions.  He  set  his  eyes  resolutely  toward  his  own  future. 
For  a  fortnight  he  did  not  see  her.  During  that  time  he 
applied  himself  determinedly  to  his  studies,  but  he  ac 
complished  little.  His  mind  was  not  at  ease.  He  was 
tortured  by  visions  of  the  girl,  and  could  not  overcome 
his  intense  yearning  for  her.  He  had  gone  from  her 
threatening  not  to  return  unless  she  sent  for  him  and 
agreed  to  the  compromise  he  had  proposed.  For  two 
weeks  he  had  carried  out  his  threat.  But  his  mental 
sufferings  were  such  that  he  could  not  work.  His  mind 
refused  to  concentrate  on  the  tasks  to  hand,  and  he  could 
not  revive  his  interest  in  his  work.  His  drama  was 
returned  to  him  for  the  fourth  time,  but  he  did  not  even 
suffer  disappointment  at  its  rejection.  It  meant  little 
to  him  now  in  comparison  with  his  hunger  for  Irene 
Brenner.  He  put  the  manuscript  away,  not  troubling  to 
send  it  out  again.  He  brooded  and  became  melancholy. 

Then  one  day,  when  his  suffering  had  brought  him 
almost  to  the  brink  of  morbid  imaginings,  a  note  came 
asking  him  to  come  back.  She,  too,  had  suffered  from 
the  separation,  and  again  she  humbled  herself  before  him. 
In  the  joy  of  being  with  her  he  again  lost  sight  of  his 
future.  Weeks  passed  before  he  put  into  practice  the 
compromise  he  had  demanded.  The  girl  submitted  to  the 
arrangement  quietly  and  sorrowfully.  She  was  to  see 
him  only  two  afternoons  a  week;  and  only  on  Friday 
nights  were  they  to  visit  the  city. 

The  Christmas  holidays  came  and  went  quickly.  West 
did  not  return  home.  He  availed  himself  of  the  respite 
to  make  up  lost  work.  For  two  months  after  that  the 
routine  which  he  had  outlined  was  adhered  to.  He  was 
still  behind  in  his  studies,  but  there  were  over  three 
months  before  he  would  be  put  to  the  determining  test, 


i24  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

and  he  was  not  apprehensive  as  to  the  outcome.  He 
worked  doggedly  and  persistently.  He  slept  little  and 
took  no  recreation.  But,  with  all  his  efforts,  his  task 
went  slowly.  There  was  now  no  incentive,  and  the 
thought  of  the  girl,  and  the  consciousness  of  her  propin 
quity,  distracted  him.  Then  in  the  early  spring  West 
experienced  a  new  torture.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  underwent  the  horrors  of  jealousy.  When  he 
went  to  Irene  Brenner  on  one  of  those  afternoons  they 
spent  together,  he  encountered  Albert  Deming  descend 
ing  the  narrow  stairway.  The  two  men  paused  a  moment, 
looked  at  each  other,  and  then  passed  on  without  a  word. 
But  in  that  moment  it  seemed  to  West  that  a  hand  of 
ice  and  fire  stifled  the  motion  of  his  heart.  His  spirit 
went  sick.  When  he  was  alone  with  the  girl  there  fol 
lowed  a  terrible  scene.  She  began  by  being  defiant.  Then 
she  made  excuses  because  of  West's  neglect  of  her.  At 
last,  frightened  by  the  look  in  his  eyes,  she  became  con 
trite  and  begged  for  forgiveness.  West  listened  without 
a  word,  blinded  by  a  novel  and  frightful  passion.  He 
tried  to  free  himself  from  the  tyranny  of  his  emotion, 
but  the  pain  of  it  had  seared  him  too  deeply.  Scarcely 
before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  struck  her 
viciously. 

She  accepted  her  punishment  without  protest.  Again 
outwardly  he  was  the  victor :  in  reality,  she  mastered  him 
by  her  abjectness.  His  work  was  again  set  aside  volun 
tarily.  Again  he  paid  the  price  of  his  brutality  by  heap 
ing  her  with  tender  attentions.  At  length  he  returned  to 
his  studies. 

But  now  a  new  note  had  entered  into  the  pain  of  sep 
aration.  He  began  to  wonder  about  Albert  Deming. 
Would  she  see  the  man  again?  Might  he  not  be  with 
her  at  this  moment?  Deming  had  known  her  before. 
Did  he  love  her?  West  recalled  the  first  night  he  had 
given  her  the  flowers;  Deming  had  resented  the  action 
and  had  gone  away  in  anger.  Surely  this  man  cared  for 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  125 

her.  Perhaps  she  had  once  cared  for  Deming.  West 
speculated  and  suffered  keenly.  Often  when  the  pain 
of  his  uncertainty  became  too  great,  he  put  down  his 
work  and  went  to  her.  Thus  he  gradually  neglected  his 
studies.  The  old  routine  was  forgotten ;  he  was  with  her 
often. 

Spring  came  once  again.  West  was  drifting  to  dis 
aster.  He  knew  it  and  was  frightened.  At  night  he 
would  awake  with  something  heavy  weighing  down  his 
mind.  He  would  stare  into  the  darkness,  stunned  by 
the  realization  of  the  swiftly  approaching  days  of  gradu 
ation.  He  would  try  to  put  the  aching  worry  from  his 
mind,  but  when  he  fell  asleep  again  it  was  to  dream  of 
swimming  against  a  baffling  tide.  Despite  all  his  strength, 
he  could  not  breast  the  hurrying  waves  which  came  to 
ward  him  in  rapid  succession.  Sometimes  he  would 
dream  of  trying  to  run  against  a  powerful  wind :  no  mat 
ter  how  he  struggled  with  its  unseen  force  he  was  car 
ried  back,  back  away  from  his  objective  point.  During 
his  waking  hours  he  refused  to  think  of  the  future.  It 
created  a  panic  in  his  soul,  and  depressed  him  for  days. 
He  was  not  resigned.  He  fought,  though  ineffectually, 
against  the  fate  which  was  sweeping  toward  him.  And 
because  it  was  weakness  and  not  resignation  which  was 
to  bring  him  to  disaster,  his  suffering  and  shame  were 
intense. 

Another  fact  added  to  his  humiliation.  For  the  past 
two  years  he  had  secretly  drawn  on  the  small  inheritance 
left  him  by  his  grandmother.  The  money  had  been  placed 
in  bonds,  but  when  he  became  of  age  he  had  realized  on 
them  and  opened  a  bank  account  in  the  city.  His  father 
knew  nothing  of  the  transaction,  but  the  time  was  draw 
ing  near  when  the  fact  would  be  discovered.  Had  he 
won  honours  at  the  University,  his  extravagance  might 
have  been  forgiven.  Now  there  was  no  palliation  for  his 
waste.  He  was  angry  with  the  girl  for  the  part  she  had 
played  in  his  extravagances.  It  was  for  her  he  had 


126  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

appropriated  this  money;  and  she  had  encouraged  him 
in  it. 

But  his  anger  did  not  decrease  his  love  for  her,  nor 
relax  the  influence  she  exerted  over  him.  Even  now  he 
was  on  the  point  of  ceasing  resistance.  He  knew  he 
would  be  happier  if  he  resigned  himself  to  his  desires 
for  her.  But  during  that  moment  of  hesitation  he  re 
ceived  a  note  from  the  Dean.  Though  West  knew  what 
was  in  it,  he  shrank  from  opening  it,  as  a  condemned 
man  might  shrink  from  the  gallows.  Yet,  when  he  over 
came  his  dread  and  read  it,  something  in  him  awakened. 
The  letter  was  a  final  warning.  It  told  West  he  could  not 
graduate  unless  he  made  a  superhuman  effort  from  that 
moment  on.  Even  then  there  was  no  surety  of  success : 
the  note  merely  indicated  that  there  might  be  one  last 
hope  of  reprieve.  The  next  day  came  a  letter  from  his 
father  and  also  a  note  from  Seminoff. 

Stanford  West  shook  himself  together  for  one  final 
stand.  There  was  little  time  left.  Were  he  to  win  his 
degree  he  must  give  up  Irene  Brenner,  entirely,  without 
compromise.  There  would  not  be  a  single  afternoon  or 
evening  she  might  claim.  They  must  wait  for  each  other 
till  the  holidays.  Would  she  agree  to  that?  Could  he 
endure  the  separation  ?  He  walked  for  miles  alone  about 
the  darkening  streets,  fighting  with  his  instincts,  keying 
himself  up  to  a  final  plunge.  Great  banks  of  clouds, 
tinged  with  bleak  colours  of  an  early,  half -hidden  sun 
set,  plunged  across  the  twilight  skies  before  a  cold,  swift 
wind.  All  about  was  the  odour  of  early  spring.  The 
April  buds  glistened  yellow-green  about  the  flickering 
gas  lamps  of  the  street.  The  ground  was  wet  from 
recent  rain,  and  the  pungent  aroma  of  loam  mixed  with 
the  over-sweet  scent  of  lilacs  and  honeysuckle.  As  West 
walked  briskly  in  the  lively,  mellow  air,  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  have  emerged  once  more  from  a  long  sleep  to 
a  new  and  finer  cycle  of  life. 

Suddenly  he  turned  his  steps  toward  Irene  Brenner's 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  127 

apartment.  The  grey  night  had  fallen  an  hour  since,  and 
the  girl  was  waiting  anxiously.  On  his  entering  she 
turned  and  was  about  to  speak.  But  something  in  the 
man's  face  checked  her. 

West  sat  down  in  silence  and  lighted  a  cigarette  with 
the  deliberation  of  one  under  a  strain.  Then  he  began 
to  speak,  and  his  voice  was  cold  and  determined.  The 
girl  listened  morosely,  without  change  of  expression.  She 
knew  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  him,  for  she  realized 
he  had  reached  a  final  decision.  She  accepted  his  pro 
nouncement  with  passive  stolidity.  West  did  not  trust 
himself  to  look  at  her  as  he  talked,  but  gazed  steadily 
into  the  low  fire. 

"It  will  mean,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "that  we  shall 
not  see  each  other  until  June,  except  for  an  occasional 
hour  now  and  then.  ...  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  love 
you,  and  that  what  I'm  doing  is  the  best — for  us.  This 
separation  will  be  as  hard  on  me  as  it  will  on  you.  ...  I 
want  you  to  remember  that.  But  it's  a  choice  of  our 
being  separated  for  a  few  weeks  or  the  disgrace  of  fail 
ure." 

He  had  expected  some  remonstrance,  but  the  girl  was 
silent.  She  looked  straight  before  her  with  the  air  of 
one  who  has  foreseen  a  catastrophe  and  is  prepared  to 
accept  it  complacently. 

When  she  spoke  her  tone  was  resigned. 

"I  had  hoped,"  she  said,  "that  you  would  not  leave 
me  just  now.  I  knew  that  as  long  as  you  were  with  me 
I  ...  would  do  nothing  I'd  be  sorry  for.  But  since 
you've  decided  as  you  have,  I  suppose  there's  nothing 
to  be  done." 

West  was  puzzled  by  her  words,  but  he  did  not  question 
her.  Now  that  he  had  made  his  decision,  he  was  anxious 
to  get  away.  He  was  distrustful  of  his  own  security. 
He  was  glad  she  showed  no  signs  of  emotion.  His  de 
parture  was  made  easier. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  called  on  the  Dean.    Then 


128  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

he  went  to  work  methodically,  mapping  out  his  hours  of 
study,  making  notes  on  the  calendar,  arranging  the  many 
details  of  his  duties. 

For  nearly  two  months  he  worked  diligently,  adhering 
to  his  resolve  with  a  pertinacity  such  as  only  a  strong 
nature  can  exert.  The  memory  of  his  former  weak 
ness  acted  on  him  like  a  stimulant.  His  weakness  had 
not  been  due  to  any  absence  of  inherent  power.  Had 
his  passions  and  emotions  been  less  virile,  he  could  have 
withstood  influences  from  without.  The  very  force  of 
his  nature,  which  had  made  it  possible  for  him  to  resist 
the  student  body,  became  too  often  the  weapon  which 
defeated  his  own  desires.  This  very  force,  translated 
into  love,  had  in  Irene  Brenner's  case  turned  upon  him 
self;  and  because  of  its  depth  and  power  he  had  suc 
cumbed  to  it.  But  now  that  he  had  conquered  that  pas 
sion,  his  strength  had  returned.  Once  again  he  was 
master  of  his  soul.  He  knew  that  he  would  see  the  girl 
no  more  until  June,  except  for  half -hours  now  and  then. 
He  was  secure  in  his  own  determination.  He  did  not 
fear  for  himself.  No  human  power  could  have  broken 
his  resolve. 

But  he  had  failed  to  count  on  the  vitality  of  memory. 
And  it  was  this  which  in  the  end  defeated  him.  He 
worked  diligently,  at  times  feverishly.  His  face  became 
drawn  and  the  muscles  twitched  at  the  corners  of  his 
eyes,  now  sunken  and  shadowed.  But  his  tasks  were  not 
completed  according  to  his  plans.  He  fell  behind  his 
routine,  and  by  no  effort  could  he  overtake  the  flying 
hours.  Memories,  speculations  and  doubts  gnawed  at  his 
brain.  He  could  not  rid  himself  of  them.  They  in 
sinuated  themselves  into  all  his  problems.  They  flashed 
out  across  the  pages  before  him.  They  wrenched  his 
thoughts  from  his  work.  Even  when  he  had  driven  them 
away  temporarily,  the  consciousness  of  them  remained. 
Irene  Brenner's  attitude,  during  the  few  brief  moments 
he  was  now  with  her,  did  not  help  him.  He  thought  he 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  129 

detected  a  change  in  her.  He  imagined  she  was  indif 
ferent,  that  she  was  slipping  away  from  him.  When  he 
left  her  he  was  assailed  by  doubts  and  intangible  fears. 
His  instinct  told  him  something  was  wrong. 

As  the  end  of  the  college  year  approached  and  he 
viewed  the  mass  of  work  which  remained  undone,  he 
realized  that  he  was  being  defeated  by  the  girl  as  surely 
as  if  he  had  remained  with  her.  The  last  days  went 
swiftly.  The  end  was  at  hand,  and  he  had  not  finished. 
For  ten  days  he  had  not  spared  himself  time  to  visit 
her  even  for  a  few  minutes.  He  tried  to  comfort  himself 
by  looking  forward  to  the  summer  when  they  would 
be  together.  He  went  into  his  final  examinations  with 
the  thin  hope  that  he  might  succeed.  But  when  he 
glanced  down  the  printed  page,  he  gave  in  to  his  fate. 
Each  day  it  was  the  same.  He  did  not  even  make  an 
effort.  Then,  when  all  was  over,  he  walked  slowly  to 
Irene  Brenner's  apartment.  The  laughter  of  students 
and  the  clean  sunshine  seemed  to  mock  him.  When  he 
arrived  he  saw  that  the  curtains  of  the  apartment  were 
drawn.  The  door  was  locked.  No  one  answered  his  long 
ring.  He  turned  away,  stricken  with  a  sense  of  disaster. 
That  night  he  found  a  note  awaiting  at  his  room. 

"Dear,"  it  ran,  "the  thing  I  have  so  long  been  afraid 
I  would  do,  is  done.  I  have  married  Albert  Deming.  You 
remember  I  told  you  that  so  long  as  you  were  with  me 
I'd  do  nothing  I  might  be  sorry  for.  That  was  why  I 
wanted  you  to  stay  with  me.  You  didn't  understand,  and 
I  couldn't  tell  you.  I  have  known  Albert  a  long,  long 
time,  and  he  has  loved  me  nearly  three  years.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  promising  to  marry  him  when  I  met  you. 
Then  I  knew  I  didn't  love  him,  for  you  were  everything 
in  the  world  to  me.  And  I  love  you  now — perhaps  I  shall 
always  love  you.  Last  night  I  cried  for  hours  on  your 
account.  It  was  foolish,  for  we  shall  never  see  each 
other  again,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  see  now  why  I 


130  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

wanted  you  with  me  always.  I  was  afraid  of  being  alone. 
At  first  I  fought  hard  against  my  loneliness,  and  when 
Albert  came  I  wouldn't  see  him.  But  I  grew  frantic  sit 
ting  there  day  after  day  and  night  after  night,  with  noth 
ing  to  do  and  no  one  to  talk  to.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  My 
life  had  always  been  so  gay,  so  full  of  people  and  pleas 
ures  and  things  to  do.  Oh,  try  to  understand.  That  was 
all  I  lived  for;  that's  all  that  life  seemed  to  mean  to  me. 
I  was  depressed  and  unhappy  after  you  went  back  to  your 
work;  and  finally  when  Albert  wanted  me  to  go  with 
him  to  the  city  and  offered  to  give  me  everything  I 
wanted — well,  I  went.  I  couldn't  help  it.  That  kind  of 
life  had  a  stronger  hold  on  me  than  you  had.  After  all 
it  may  be  for  the  best.  I  am  loved  and  I  have  everything 
that  money  can  buy,  and  I  am  no  longer  lonely. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,  for  what  I  have  done.  I  am  not 
as  happy  as  I  was  with  you,  and  I  shall  think  of  you 
often.  Sometimes  I  shall  cry  a  little  for  your  sake.  Will 
you  ever  think  of  me  and  our  wonderful  days  together? 

"IRENE." 

West  sat  for  an  hour,  dazed,  amid  the  wreckage  of  his 
youth.  Life  seemed  suddenly  overwhelmingly  cruel,  and 
as  he  thought  of  the  past  two  years,  the  iron  entered  into 
his  soul.  But  in  that  instant  his  manhood  awoke.  The 
world  had  defeated  him,  but  out  of  that  defeat  arose  a 
new  energy.  The  past  receded  from  him.  When  he 
looked  up,  the  blackness  of  night  was  in  the  room.  Out 
side  a  group  of  students  sang  boisterously,  and  to  West 
their  singing  was  the  echo  of  a  long- forgotten  existence. 
He  lighted  the  lamp,  and  at  the  flash  of  it,  resentment  and 
anger  tore  through  him.  He  had  wasted  two  years  of  his 
life.  His  inheritance  was  gone.  He  was  disgraced. 
And  she  for  whom  he  must  now  suffer  shame,  had  de 
serted  him.  As  he  contemplated  the  debacle  of  his  hopes, 
he  felt  a  sudden  blinding  hate  for  the  girl.  She  alone  had 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  131 

broken  the  pillars  of  his  life  and  brought  the  ruins  crash 
ing  down  about  him. 

For  a  while  he  watched  the  gaunt  shadows  along  the 
walls.  Then  his  anger  went  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 
He  still  desired  Irene  Brenner.  Now  that  she  had 
passed  from  out  his  life,  he  realized  that  she  still  meant 
something  to  him — something  which  he  believed  time 
could  not  efface.  It  was  she  who  had  awakened  his  first 
great  emotions.  She  was  his  knowledge,  his  point  of 
view,  the  vitalization  of  all  his  youthful  dreams.  She  / 
had  given  him  his  first  sweet  drink  of  life.  She  had  in-  V 
terwoven  herself  into  the  first  hot  stirrings  of  his  blood. 
It  was  her  body  which  had  kindled  the  primeval  fires  in 
his  soul.  The  wonder  of  her  had  passed  into  his  veins. 
She  was  the  whole  of  his  youth,  the  eternal  conquest  of 
his  life,  elemental  and  immutable.  Would  she  not  for 
ever  remain  the  background  of  all  his  early  memories? 

Walking  to  the  window  he  looked  out  into  the  blue 
night.  All  was  still  now.  A  few  distant  lights  splashed 
the  deep  gloom,  and  several  rectangles  of  dim  yellow 
glowed  on  the  shadowy  houses  opposite.  Above  them 
the  tops  of  great  silent  trees  lay  black  against  a  sky  of 
white  stars.  Over  all  hung  an  atmosphere  of  brooding 
romance.  The  night  was  not  cold,  yet  the  sense  of  some 
thing  chill  made  West  shiver  a  little.  His  spring,  which 
he  had  thought  perpetual,  had  passed  from  him  for  all 
time.  His  mind  looked  back  upon  it — the  glamour  and 
the  glory  of  it!  The  wonder  and  the  joy!  And  then, 
in  the  midst  of  his  blinding  shame  and  tragic  grief,  he 
smiled  faintly ;  for  he  knew  that  had  the  past  two  years 
been  his  to  relive,  he  would  not  have  had  them  different. 


XV 

STANFORD  WEST'S  parents  bore  his  failure  in  silence. 
When  he  told  them  of  it,  briefly  and  without  apology, 
they  saw  his  remorse  and  sorrow.  No  words  of  theirs 
could  have  heaped  higher  his  burden  of  shame.  There 
was  about  him  a  wistful  silence  and  a  tender  resignation, 
symptomatic  of  deep  humiliation.  They  understood  his 
grief  and  said  nothing.  To  them  he  appeared  years  older 
than  he  had  the  previous  summer.  The  lines  in  his  fore 
head  had  deepened ;  his  eyes  had  grown  calmer  and  more 
penetrating;  and  his  mouth  was  firmer.  He  bore  him 
self  with  greater  dignity.  When  he  spoke  it  was  with 
the  intensity  of  one  who  had  undergone  a  transforming 
tragedy.  His  nature  had  deepened;  his  personality  had 
taken  on  a  more  sombre  colour.  Joseph  West  and  his 
wife,  seeing  these  things,  were  wise  enough  to  know  that 
the  experiences  through  which  he  had  gone  had  stirred 
the  fundamental  springs  of  his  being.  The  matter  was 
not  one  in  which  they  might  interfere. 

Stanford  West  was  grateful  for  their  silence.  He  had 
awakened  to  a  new  knowledge:  the  world  had  suddenly 
been  stripped  of  all  illusion.  He  was  now  confronted  by 
the  necessity  of  transvaluing  all  things  which  touched 
his  life.  In  the  process  he  discovered  that  he  possessed 
new  forces  and  new  potentialities.  At  first  it  was  diffi 
cult  to  adjust  himself  to  these  novel  psychological  con 
ditions  ;  but  before  the  summer  was  gone  he  had  accepted 
the  challenge  of  the  grimmer  order  of  existence  with 
serene  surety.  He  could  use  his  full  resistance  to  cope 
with  it,  for  Alice  Carlisle  was  abroad  with  her  father, 
and  he  was  spared  the  unpleasantness  of  an  awkward 

132 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  133 

and  hypocritical  intrigue.  Many  times  during  the  past 
year  he  had  determined  to  break  his  engagement  with 
her.  But  since  Irene  Brenner's  desertion  of  him,  his  sen 
timental  uncertainty  had  returned.  He  feared  taking  a 
decisive  step.  He  must  wait  until  order  evolved  from  the 
chaos  of  his  emotions. 

Again  his  thoughts  turned  to  his  future;  and  again 
he  found  consolation  in  the  thought  of  difficult  creative 
work.  He  re-read  his  drama,  together  with  SeminofFs 
letter  and  those  of  the  two  older  critics.  Inspired  by  new 
courage,  he  once  more  sent  his  manuscript  to  a  publisher. 
He  planned  another  work  similar  to  it.  Hotly  urged  by 
inspiration,  he  began  to  write.  This  labour  gave  him  the 
consolation  his  mind  most  needed. 

Toward  the  end  of  summer  his  father  came  to  him. 

"I  want  you  to  return  to  the  University,"  Joseph  West 
said.  "I  want  you  to  finish  your  work  with  honour.  Pre 
tend  it's  your  fourth  year.  We'll  forget  all  the  past. 
You're  young :  perhaps  the  last  year  won't  mean  so  much 
to  you.  I  want  you  to  succeed." 

Stanford  West  went  again  to  Cambridge.  There  was 
no  shirking  now.  He  studied  faithfully.  His  calendar 
was  full.  Irene  Brenner  was  no  longer  there;  and  he 
allowed  nothing  to  distract  him.  The  University  held 
many  sad  associations,  but  there  was  little  time  for  retro 
spect.  He  avoided  the  scenes  of  his  earlier  follies. 

His  drama  had  been  refused  by  four  more  publishers. 
Each  of  the  rejections  was  an  occasion  of  melancholy. 
A  feeling  of  intellectual  solitude  depressed  him.  He 
was  used  to  social  solitude,  but  this  new  loneliness  he 
found  more  difficult  to  face.  Only  the  happiness  in  the 
depths  of  his  being  fortified  him  against  his  isolation. 
But  finally  a  publisher  in  Boston  sent  for  him  and  offered 
to  issue  the  book  provided  he  would  share  the  cost  of 
publication.  West  had  but  a  limited  amount  of  money 
with  which  to  meet  the  year's  expenses;  but  already  he 
had  saved  a  little,  and  he  knew  that  by  strict  economy  he 


134  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

could  save  more.     He  agreed  to  the  publisher's  terms; 
and  the  book  went  to  press. 

For  a  while  the  thought  of  its  appearance  in  print 
frightened  him.  The  drama  was  too  unusual,  too  revo 
lutionary,  too  strongly  opposed  to  the  ingrained  ideals 
and  beliefs  of  his  day.  He  was  apprehensive  as  to  the 
result  of  his  heresy.  He  feared  the  scoffs  and  denuncia 
tions  it  might  call  forth.  Perhaps  its  Hellenic  sentiment 
was  too  aggressive,  its  unmorality  too  pronounced.  Were 
the  execution  of  the  book  more  mature,  he  thought,  his 
ideas  would  appear  more  authoritative  and  less  positive. 
He  knew  the  play  had  vigour,  but  he  knew  also  it  was  an 
anxious  vigour,  more  sure  of  itself  than  of  its  applica 
tion.  This  was  because  he  had  served  no  apprenticeship 
with  smaller  things,  but  had  plunged  straightway  into 
vaster  issues.  He  was  conscious  of  the  shortcomings  and 
the  blunders  of  youth  embodied  in  its  pages.  He  had 
not  acquired  that  strength  and  mastery  for  which  he 
sought.  The  world  might  laugh  at  him: — this  fear 
gripped  him  more  strongly  than  any  other.  However,  it 
was  too  late  to  turn  back.  He  awaited  anxiously  the  out 
come  of  his  first  venture  into  authorship. 

The  day  came  when  the  book  was  placed  in  his  hand. 
It  emboldened  him.  It  was  a  precious  thing,  a  part  of 
himself,  and  he  was  ready  to  fight  for  it.  He  loved  it 
almost  as  if  it  had  been  animate.  And  because  it  was  the 
expression  of  the  most  intimate  things  in  his  nature,  he 
felt  called  upon  to  defend  and  protect  it  with  all  his 
strength.  His  spirit  of  combat  flared  up.  His  fears 
and  misgivings  vanished. 

But  his  strength  was  not  to  be  called  upon.  Copies 
had  been  sent  to  the  critics.  Few  of  them  read  it.  By 
the  majority  it  was  ignored.  One  or  two  wrote  him  per 
sonal  letters  of  appreciation,  saying  they  dared  not  praise 
it  publicly.  A  small  number  printed  perfunctory  notices. 
One  or  two  treated  it  lightly.  No  one  took  it  seriously. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  135 

The  very  few  who  undertook  to  criticize  it  were  blind  to 
its  import. 

"All  young  men  during  their  university  days,"  wrote 
one,  "compose  Greek  dramas.  They  take  the  legends  and 
the  myths  of  the  ancients,  alter  them  to  the  needs  of  their 
plots,  and  couch  the  result  in  time-honoured  iambic 
pentameter.  Mr.  Stanford  West  appears  to  be  no  better 
and,  let  it  be  said,  no  worse  than  his  predecessors  in  this 
juvenile  and  questionable  practice." 

"The  desire  to  shock  and  startle,"  commented  another, 
"is  an  infallible  concomitant  of  the  inexperienced.  It 
is  only  the  very  young  who  have  the  effrontery  to  advo 
cate  the  abolition  of  moral  laws.  Mr.  West  is  no  doubt 
very  young,  for  the  temerity  he  displays  in  his  admira 
tion  for  the  license  of  antiquity  would  be  impossible  in 
a  man  of  mature  years.  Nor  does  this  play  contain  any 
technical  merits  which  might  be  urged  in  justification  of 
its  theme." 

West  was  grieved  at  this  meretricious  style  of  judg 
ment.  He  had  hoped  that  at  least  his  point  of  view  would 
be  understood.  Condemnation  would  not  have  mattered 
so  much  then.  But  no  critic  had  recognized  the  youth 
of  it,  its  pagan  soul,  the  Grecian  love  of  beauty,  its  spirit 
of  solemnity  and  theistic  awe,  its  passionate  reverence 
for  the  older  and  cleaner  gods.  They  saw  only  an  at 
tempt  to  shock.  And  all  his  strivings  for  the  technical 
simplicity  of  Sophocles,  for  the  ingenuousness  of  the 
(Edipus  manner,  for  the  psychological  spirit  of  cu 
mulative  cohesion  as  opposed  to  the  mechanical  and 
artificial  dexterity  of  modern  art — this,  in  the  critics' 
eves,  spelled  crudity  and  ineptitude. 

West's  grief  at  this  lack  of  appreciation  was  deepened 
by  the  fact  that  his  father,  too,  had  been  distressed  by 
the  book's  publication.  He  had  not  shown  the  manu 
script  to  his  parents  because  of  the  barrier  which  had 
lain  between  them.  But  when  the  book  appeared,  he  had 
sent  them  a  copy,  hoping  its  beauties  might  reconcile  them 


136  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

to  his  two  years'  waywardness.  He  threw  himself  once 
more  into  his  studies  until  he  had  successfully  com 
pleted  them.  In  time  he  brought  home  an  honourable 
record  of  academic  labour. 

The  summer  after  his  graduation  was  a  trying  one. 
His  first  act  was  to  break  his  engagement  with  Alice 
Carlisle.  The  tragic  comedy  of  their  love  had  grown 
too  painful  for  him.  His  position  had  become  invidious, 
even  to  culpability,  and  his  conscience  gave  him  no  peace. 
He  went  to  her,  and  was  honest. 

"It  has  all  been  a  terrible  mistake/'  he  told  her.  "Once 
I  thought — I  believed  I  loved  you.  I  don't  understand 
the  change  in  me.  Only,  now  that  I'm  older,  I  realize 
that  I  don't  love  you  as  much  as  you  would  want  me  to 
if  I  should  marry  you.  .  .  .  Try  to  forgive  me." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  questioningly,  but  with  no  sign 
of  emotion. 

He  thought  he  read  her  mind  and  went  on :  "There's 
no  one  else  I  love — or  I'd  understand  why  I'd  changed. 
I  only  know  that  I'm  different  now,  like  another  person 
.  .  .  and  all  my  emotions  are  different." 

He  could  not  continue :  he  was  suffering  too  deeply. 
The  girl  saw  his  pain  and  tried  to  console  him. 

"I  know  you  can't  help  it,  Stanford,"  she  said  in  a 
soothing  voice.  "I  wouldn't  want  you  to  pretend  to 
care  for  me — that  would  be  worse.  I'm  .  .  .  glad  you 
had  the  courage  to  tell  me.  It  was  the  strong  and  right 
thing  to  do.  ...  Maybe  some  day  you'll  find  a  girl 
you'll  really  love." 

Her  attitude  puzzled  him.  It  made  him  doubt  his  own 
sincerity  in  repudiating  his  love.  When  he  had  left  her 
he  remembered  the  wist  fulness  in  her  eyes  which  seemed 
to  belie  the  coldness  of  her  words;  and  he  tried  to  put  it 
from  him. 

That  night  he  told  his  father  of  his  decision.  The 
older  man  said  nothing,  but  West  knew  that  his  act  had 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  137 

only  added  to  the  burden  of  sorrow  which  the  other  al 
ready  bore  on  his  account. 

His  future  was  now  at  hand.  He  knew  that  Joseph 
West  counted  on  his  entering  the  State  College  in  prep 
aration  for  his  prescribed  career.  He  himself  was  in  no 
position  to  dictate.  He  owed  a  great  debt  to  his  father. 
The  past  arose  before  him  like  an  insuperable  wall.  He 
did  not  broach  the  subject,  but  waited  for  his  father  to 
speak.  He  was  prepared  to  protest  mildly,  but  he  knew 
his  sense  of  duty  would  keep  him  from  any  refractory 
outburst.  There  was  a  chance  that  Joseph  West  would 
consent  to  the  career  he  wished  to  follow.  If  so,  he 
would  set  his  hand  to  the  difficult  game  of  authorship. 
If  not,  he  would  enter  the  great  brick  college  on  Oak 
Hill  and  do  what  writing  he  could  when  the  opportunity 
offered.  It  might  be  that  later  some  destinate  upheaval 
would  liberate  him.  Again,  he  might  find  strength  to 
throw  off  the  yoke  with  his  own  hands.  Of  one  thing  he 
was  sure: — his  submission  would  never  be  permanent. 
But  at  present  he  had  neither  the  heart  nor  the  courage 
to  resist. 

When,  toward  the  end  of  the  summer,  his  mother  came 
to  him  and  asked  him  if  he  had  definite  plans  for  his 
career,  he  merely  stated  his  desire  to  continue  his  writing. 

"I  had  hoped,"  she  said  sorrowfully,  "that  your  wishes 
would  be  ours.  It  will  break  your  father's  heart  if  you 
don't  follow  him  in  the  work  he  has  planned  for  you  .  .  . 
and  I  shall  feel  that  in  some  way  you've  been  lost  to  me." 

West  said  nothing,  and  the  woman  continued :  "You 
are  all  we  have  in  the  world,  and  we  have  no  hopes  other 
than  those  which  are  centred  in  you.  Already  you've 
caused  us  a  great  deal  of  heartache.  You've  drifted  from 
us  and  all  our  teachings.  You've  gone  your  own  way  and 
brought  bitter  disappointment  to  us  both.  You've  thrown 
a  year  of  your  life  away.  You've  squandered  your  in 
heritance.  You've  broken  with  the  girl  who  loves  you 
and  to  whom  we  wanted  to  see  you  happily  married. 


138  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

You've  scoffed  at  our  most  sacred  ideals  and  ridiculed 
the  faith  your  father  and  I  have  always  lived  by. 
You'll  never  know  what  pain  your  book  caused  us.  It 
shows  how  far  you've  drifted  away  from  all  that  is  up 
right  and  good.  It  is  the  book  of  an  atheist,  a  man 
without  belief  in  God.  It  upholds  everything  that's 
selfish  and  uncharitable  and  vicious.  I  can  hardly  be 
lieve  that  a  child  of  mine  could  have  written  those  words. 
I  don't  understand  why  God  should  visit  such  punishment 
on  me.  I  don't  bring  these  things  up  for  the  purpose  of 
censuring  you.  I  only  want  you  to  realize  what  you,  our 
only  son,  have  made  us  suffer.  I  can't  believe  you  really 
think  these  things  .  .  .  and  I  pray  that  some  day  the 
good  in  you  will  come  forth.  For  the  good  is  there;  if 
I  didn't  believe  that,  I  think  I  should  die.  If  your  ideas 
were  different  I  shouldn't  look  upon  a  career  of  writing 
as  so  terrible  a  thing.  I  could  even  be  happy  in  it,  in  spite 
of  my  sorrow  and  disappointment  at  your  unwillingness 
to  do  what  we  had  chosen  for  you.  But  when  I  think  of 
you  expending  your  fine  talents  upon  such  abhorrent  and 
immoral  writings  as  your  book  it  seems  more  than  I  can 
bear.  I  believe  after  you've  been  here  for  a  while  with 
your  father  and  me,  things  will  be  different." 

The  woman  turned  and  looked  anxiously,  almost  fear 
fully,  at  the  silent  figure  of  her  son.  Impulsively  she 
leaned  toward  him. 

"Can't  you  be  content  to  do  what  we  wish?"  she  asked 
brokenly.  "Can't  you  see  that  it's  the  best  thing  for 
you  ?  It  doesn't  seem  that  I  could  stand  any  more  sorrow 
on  your  account  .  .  .  and  your  father  is  all  broken  with 
worrying  about  you.  .  .  .  Come  back  to  us,  son !" 

There  was  anguish  in  her  voice — such  anguish  as  can 
grow  only  out  of  a  long  and  consuming  love.  So  strong 
was  her  passion  that  tears  forced  themselves  into  her  star 
ing  eyes  and  fell  unheeded  on  her  tightly  folded  hands. 

West  was  strangely  affected  by  her  tears.  He  remem 
bered  how  Irene  Brenner  had  pleaded  with  him  in  just 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  139 

the  way  his  mother  was  now  pleading.  And  as  he  made 
that  unconscious  comparison  there  suddenly  fell  from 
this  woman  before  him  all  the  illusion  of  motherhood. 
She,  no  less  than  Irene  Brenner,  was  concerned  with  her 
own  interests.  It  was  for  her  sake  she  wanted  him  to  re 
main  in  Greenwood,  perhaps  merely  for  the  gratification 
of  her  vanity.  And  to  achieve  her  end  she  made  use  of 
the  same  weapons  that  the  girl  at  the  University  had  used. 
Yet,  although  he  believed  this,  he  could  not  combat  those 
soft  persuasions,  those  pronouncements  of  love,  those 
appeals  to  his  chivalry,  and  finally  those  tears. 

The  following  month  he  entered  his  father's  college. 

Six  months  later  he  wrote  to  Seminoff :  "Dear  friend : 
Life  has  woven  a  pretty  net  about  me.  Here  I  am 
studying  night  and  day  in  order  to  become  an  adept  in 
the  art  of  pedagogy.  It  was  my  father's  wish,  and  there 
were  many  reasons  why  I  could  not  go  against  it.  He 
hopes  that  some  day  I  shall  take  his  place  at  the  head  of 
the  college.  Who  knows?  Perhaps  I  shall.  My  soul 
rebelled  at  first,  but  by  dint  of  practising  a  ruthless 
negation,  upon  all  my  aspirations  I  have  almost  come 
to  accept  my  lot  with  a  deep  contentment.  Even  if  there 
is  no  exaltation  in  it,  there  is  at  least  beneficence.  I  feel 
myself  being  drawn  down  into  the  welter  of  pedantry 
and  dogmatism  by  a  vindictive  and  punitive  fate  whose 
power  I  haven't  the  energy  to  overcome.  Perhaps  it  is 
just  as  well,  for  in  a  world  of  compromise  and  convention 
the  uncompromising  and  unconventional  must  inevitably 
suffer.  Perhaps  here  I  shall  come  to  look  upon  life 
through  formal  spectacles.  There  is  no  time  for  writing, 
which  is  just  as  well  for  my  mother  and  father.  They 
look  upon  my  efforts  as  unpardonably  immoral." 

A  month  later  West  repented  his  words.  His  spirit 
of  resignation  was  too  shallow  to  be  lasting.  Again  he 
wrote  to  Seminoff:  "Already  I  am  tiring  of  the  serenity 
of  the  destiny  which  has  been  superimposed  on  me.  I 
had  thought  that  the  great  scarlets  and  golds  of  life  had 


140  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

been  laid  aside,  but,  alas!  the  challenge  of  independent 
endeavour  is  too  strong  to  be  ignored.  I  have  padded 
my  ears  with  platitudes  an4  sophistries,  but  I  still  hear 
that  call  which  has  tortured  me  all  my  life.  Last  night 
I  walked  for  hours  in  the  warm  starlight,  thrilled  with 
vivid  perceptions.  Returning  to  my  room  I  sat  up  all 
night  writing.  So  overcome  was  I  by  the  instinct  to  cre 
ate  that  I  was  totally  unfit  for  my  studies  to-day.  I  am 
wondering  now  how  long  I  can  endure  this  life.  The 
spirit  of  revolt  is  quickening  in  me.  I  fear  it  will  become 
stronger  than  my  sense  of  duty,  my  love  for  those  who 
love  me,  and  all  the  other  ties  that  hold  me  here.  Next 
year  I  am  to  be  given  a  small  instructorship  in  English. 
Shall  I  be  able  to  accept  it?" 

As  the  days  went  by  Stanford  West's  aversion  to  his 
new  life  grew.  He  began  to  neglect  his  studies  that  he 
might  have  time  for  his  personal  writings.  He  made  no 
complaint  to  his  father;  his  mind  was  still  undecided. 
He  knew  that  if  he  made  a  change  it  would  be  final. 
There  would  be  no  turning  back.  The  great  crisis  of  his 
life  was  at  hand,  and  he  hesitated  before  choosing  his 
path.  The  cost  of  a  change  now  was  greater  than  before. 
Joseph  West  had  grown  younger  this  year.  His  son 
was  with  him,  and  the  fulfilment  of  his  hopes  was  im 
minent.  The  young  man  saw  this,  and  shrank  from 
dealing  his  father  the  blow  from  which  he  would  never 
recover.  He  thought,  too,  of  his  mother.  Her  happi 
ness  also  would  be  the  price  of  his  revolt.  What  if  he 
should  go  away  and  fail  ?  Was  it  not  wiser  to  adhere  to 
a  small  certainty  than  to  risk  all  in  a  great  gamble  with 
the  unknown? 

"When  I  reason  the  matter  out/'  he  wrote  Seminoff, 
"I  am  convinced  that  the  duty  to  myself  is  greater  than 
all  other  considerations.  Yet  my  heart  lacks  the  courage. 
Were  it  only  my  father  who  stood  between  me  and  my 
desire,  I  should  go  to  him,  and  he  would  in  a  measure 
understand.  But  my  mother  could  never  forgive  me  in 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  141 

her  heart.  All  her  life  she  would  grieve.  That  is  the 
thought  which  strangles  me  when  I  am  about  to  speak. 
Her  love  is  too  strong  and  unreasoning.  Her  sorrow 
would  haunt  me  always.  Ah,  dear  friend,  it  takes  cour 
age  to  break  the  heart  of  one  you  love." 

"To  be  true  to1  yourself,  you  must  be  false  to  others," 
Seminoff  answered.  "All  great  achievement  is  paid  for 
in  suffering.  These  are  the  moulding  years  of  your  life. 
They  alone  will  determine  your  future.  The  longer  you 
hesitate,  the  stronger  will  grow  the  conventional  bonds. 
Your  resiliency  of  mind  will  go;  your  courage  will  dwin 
dle  ;  your  chances  of  escape  will  slip  away." 

There  were  other  letters  of  a  similar  nature.  They  all 
urged  West  to  abandon  his  work  at  Greenwood,  to  strike 
out  into  personal  fields",  to  follow  his  own  dictates. 
Gradually  his  resolve  was  broken.  One  by  one  the  tram 
mels  of  his  conscience  fell  from  him.  It  became  harder 
and  harder  for  him  to  adhere  to  his  studies.  The  de 
mands  for  self-expression  grew  so  persistent  that  there 
were  days  together  in  which  his  college  duties  were  com 
pletely  neglected.  The  volitional  element  of  his  actions 
diminished.  He  felt  their  inevitability,  their  fatalistic  urg 
ency.  His  efforts  to  battle  against  the  current  in  which 
he  had  been  caught  took  on  the  character  of  futility. 
Struggle  as  he  might,  the  tide  was  washing  him  further 
and  further  away  from  the  placid  beach  of  his  prescribed 
future.  He  became  weary  in  both  mind  and  body,  and 
each  day  increased  his  fatigue.  He  kept  his  eyes  reso 
lutely  on  the  shore,  however,  although  the  voice  of  his 
own  desire  grew  louder  and  more  impelling  as  he  was 
drawn  away,  as  by  an  invisible  hand,  from  the  bleak 
promontories  of  his  routine.  It  took  the  full  capacity  of 
his  will-power  even  to  go  through  the  motions  of  his 
present  existence.  His  father  watched  him  sadly  but  said 
nothing,  hoping  perhaps  that  his  son's  spirit  of  lethargy 
and  disinterestedness  would  pass.  His  mother  became 
more  quiet  than  was  her  wont.  She  spoke  seldom,  and 


142  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

often  when  she  sat  with  a  book  before  her,  West  no 
ticed  that  her  eyes  were  not  on  the  print 

One  night  in  early  spring,  unable  to  sleep,  he  arose 
from  bed.  The  air  was  clear  and  fragrant  and  mild. 
The  sky  was  white  with  stars,  and  the  silent  bursting  life 
of  the  season  seemed  to  palpitate  with  the  ecstasy  of 
parturition  and  growth.  As  he  watched  the  green,  young 
life  that  stretched  out  before  him  into  the  shadows  of 
the  hills,  his  ambition  broke  out  afresh  like  a  new  crater. 
His  writing  was  the  most  intensely  real  thing  in  all  his 
experience:  it  was  for  him  the  very  quintessence  and 
sublimation  of  life.  All  else — duty,  love,  resolve,  sacri 
fice,  obedience,  debt,  even  honour  in  the  worldly  sense — • 
were  but  makeshifts,  mirages,  phantoms,  things  to  be 
conquered,  to  be  crushed  and  set  aside.  Gazing  into  the 
unknown  future  of  his  personal  choice,  he  was  blinded 
by  its  glow,  saturated  by  its  brilliance,  like  one  who  looks 
directly  into  a  powerful  search-light.  He  was  penetrated 
by  the  indestructible  certitude  of  a  glittering  and  bound 
less  success ;  and  in  his  heart  was  the  inaccessible  serenity 
of  faith.  But  accompanying  this  faith  was  the  fear  of 
extinction,  of  catastrophe.  The  brevity  of  life  frightened 
him.  He  suddenly  felt  that  he  must  make  haste,  that  if 
he  tarried  an  appalling  calamity  would  befall  him.  He 
thought  of  the  great  dead — too  quickly  dead. 

He  arose  suddenly  as  if  an  imperious  voice  had  com 
manded  him.  Quickly  sitting  down  at  his  desk  he  wrote 
to  Seminoff :  "You  are  right.  I  must  follow  the  point 
ing  finger  of  my  own  soul.  Struggle  is  useless.  My 
presence  here,  and  the  subjugation  it  implies,  is  cow 
ardice.  I  have  arrived  at  the  astonishing  conclusion  that 
I  am  victimized  alone  by  my  mother.  Were  she  elimi 
nated  from  my  considerations  I  should  have  departed 
long  ago.  My  father  would  have  grieved ;  but  with  him 
it  is  different.  He  is  of  my  sex,  an  equal  antagonist. 
The  relationship  between  men  is  one  thing:  between  a 
man  and  a  woman  the  instincts  are  different.  One  may 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  143 

triumph  over  men — even  over  one's  father — and  derive 
a  certain  amount  of  exhilaration  from  one's  success. 
The  law  of  survival  accords  with  such  a  contest;  men 
expect  those  things :  it  is  a  part  of  their  spiritual  heritage. 
But  can  a  man  triumph  over  women  ?  Is  there  not  some 
thing  within  every  man  that  withholds  from  him  the  sense 
of  victory?  The  power  of  women  is  insidious,  like  an 
ineradicable  disease  that  gets  into  our  blood  and  remains 
there  for  all  time,  to  break  out  at  intervals  and  torture 
us  even  when  we  are  alone.  My  mother's  love  has  domi 
nated  me  since  birth,  changed  and  coloured  my  whole 
being,  led  me  into  byways,  and  followed  me  like  an  inex 
orable  shadow  wherever  I  went.  She  alone  has  kept  me 
here.  Her  tears  have  been  my  shackles. 

"But  my  resolve  is  made.  I  shall  go  from  here  with 
a  broken  heart  on  her  account.  I  shall  go  soon,  however, 
— in  a  few  days.  A  power  stronger  than  hers  has  turned 
my  eyes  away  from  my  duty  to  her.  If  ever  I  am  great, 
that  may  be  her  compensation.  And  yet  I  feel  that  the 
burden  I  must  bear  for  her  sake  will  be  as  great  as  the 
burden  she  will  bear  because  of  my  decision.  I  have 
been  a  slave  to  her  love  too  long.  My  term  of  service 
is  over.  To-night,  for  the  first  time,  I  have  the  power  to 
break  my  bonds.  I  shall  go  to  New  York  and  serve  an 
apprenticeship  with  some  magazine.  I  shall  write  you 
from  there.  Perhaps  we  may  see  each  other  often." 


XVI 

A  PERIOD  of  uncertainty  and  depression  came  upon 
Stanford  West  during  his  first  weeks  in  the  city  where 
one  epoch  of  his  destiny  was  to  be  laid.  The  gusty  pas 
sion  of  New  York,  the  mammoth  fever  of  its  life,  broke 
his  high  spirits  and  dampened  his  hopes.  Heretofore,  he 
had  been  merely  a  spectator  of  the  city.  He  had  been 
content  to  be  caught  in  its  vortex.  His  attitude  toward 
it  had  been  impersonal.  Now  that  he  was  a  part  of  its 
surging  activities,  now  that  he  must  overcome  its  cur 
rent,  bring  to  it  all  he  had  to  offer  and  receive  from  it 
only  what  it  chose  to  give,  it  took  on  a  different  mien. 
Its  aspect  was  monstrous  and  cruel  and  everlastingly 
dictatorial.  It  was  cold  and  unapproachable,  fraught 
with  outward  and  inner  terrors,  at  once  seductive  and 
repellent.  A  terrifying  loneliness  swept  over  him.  There 
was  nothing  that  his  hands  might  grasp  and  hold.  All 
human  actions  and  desires  eluded  him.  They  were  in 
themselves  too  gigantic  to  be  susceptible  to  circumscrip 
tion,  and  yet  they  seemed  too  petty,  when  compared  with 
the  enormity  of  the  city's  power,  to  be  worthy  of  attain 
ment.  Even  the  people  he  met  and  touched  in  their 
feverish  to-and-fro  seemed  to  belong  to  another  life, 
another  planet.  There  was  an  infinite  gulf  between  him 
and  them.  He  felt  that  should  he  shout  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  they  would  not  hear  him.  He  walked  among  them 
like  a  spectre,  unseen,  unheeded. 

At  first  he  regretted  his  decision  to  put  Greenwood 
from  his  life.  And  at  what  a  cost  had  he  made  good  his 
resolve!  The  tears  of  his  mother  still  burned  into  his 
flesh  like  living  coals.  When  he  had  faced  her  and 

144 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  145 

pronounced  his  ultimatum  he  had  seen  for  the  first  time 
the  wrinkles  about  her  eyes  and  mouth.  He  had  noticed 
the  streaks  of  grey  in  her  hair.  The  tragedy  of  her  age 
added  to  his  sorrow.  A  new  pity  for  the  old,  the  de 
parted,  the  unrecallable,  entered  his  already  heavy  heart. 
He  had  expected  his  father  to  protest.  He  would  have 
welcomed  a  struggle.  But  Joseph  West  sensed  the  in- 
utility  of  argument.  His  grief  was  too  deep  for  anger. 
He  acquiesced  quietly,  almost  apologetically,  like  a  man 
who  has  been  broken  and  is  about  to  die  and  desires  peace 
above  all  else.  To  what  purpose  had  all  this  tragedy 
been  ?  Was  the  city  after  all  but  a  gaudy  chimera  ? 

Stanford  West's  entry  into  the  game  of  authorship  had 
been  facilitated.  He  had  come  to  New  York  with  every 
advantage.  He  had  been  spared  the  drudging  task  of 
finding  a  foothold  for  himself.  Joseph  West  had  written 
a  long  letter  to  Harrison  D wight,  an  old  friend  of  his 
youth,  now  owner  and  editor  of  the  Argonaut,  a  con 
servative  weekly  publication.  The  young  man  had  gone 
direct  to  him  and  been  received  warmly.  He  had  been 
placed  immediately  on  the  periodicals'  staff  at  a  salary 
which  at  first  astonished  him,  but  which,  on  reflection, 
became  only  too  clear  to  him.  He  saw  his  father's  hand 
in  this,  too.  The  man  whose  hopes  he  had  wrecked  had 
retaliated  by  making  his  path  smoother,  by  aiding  him 
secretly  in  the  fulfilment  of  his  ambition.  He  pretended 
not  to  perceive  the  strategy,  though  he  knew  no  novice 
could  be  worth  the  price  paid  him. 

His  work  at  first,  though  unimportant,  was  difficult. 
Inwardly  he  was  opposed  to  the  policies  of  the  paper. 
His  whole  nature  revolted  against  the  principles  which 
governed  his  writings.  But  equipment  was  what  he 
needed,  a  practical  understanding  of  his  craft.  And  he 
knew  that  by  the  time  he  should  have  mastered  its  rudi 
ments  he  would  have  saved  enough  to  be  independent. 
Then  he  would  be  able  to  turn  to  the  things  representative 
of  his  inner  consciousness.  His  present  work  was  but  a 


146  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

preliminary  skirmish  to  the  real  fray  of  creative  author 
ship,  a  prelude  to  the  attainment  of  his  feverish  ambitions. 
At  present  he  could  not  write  from  the  urgent  spring  of 
his  own  emotions.  But  he  was  gifted  with  an  unusual 
sensitiveness  and  receptiveness  of  sympathy  and  ob 
servation,  and  the  divine  philtre  of  self-confidence  per 
meated  all  his  labours. 

The  misgivings  and  loneliness  which  at  first  had  de 
pressed  him  gradually  passed.  Dwight  encouraged  him 
and  gave  him  more  important  assignments.  As  an  in 
creasing  latitude  of  expression  was  allowed  him  he  de 
veloped  a  surety  of  phrase  and  an  unde faced  energy. 
He  had  an  unfalterable  and  net  instinct  for  words  and  a 
plausibility  in  presenting  his  point  of  view  which  began 
to  attract  the  attention  of  his  fellow  workers.  He 
thought  clearly  and  concisely,  and  his  articles  were  dis 
tinguished  by  a  nudity  of  expression  and  a  contempt  for 
accessories  which  won  him  the  confidence  and  admiration 
of  readers.  Things  moved  him  strongly  and  dramati 
cally,  as  they  would  a  child  who  looked  upon  the  world 
for  the  first  time ;  but  he  always  kept  a  rein  on  the  vaga 
ries  of  his  nature.  As  he  plunged  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  current  of  his  work  he  felt  the  exhilaration  of 
being  at  grip  with  life  and  its  disillusions.  Upon  the 
teachings  of  earlier  years  he  engrafted  corollaries  of  his 
own  derived  from  a  direct  observation  of  life.  His  de 
velopment  was  rapid  and  sure. 

Five  months  after  he  had  been  writing  for  the  Argo 
naut  Harrison  Dwight  sent  for  him. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "your  father  and  I  were  very 
dear  friends  in  the  old  days,  and  I  have  watched  you 
with  more  than  a  mere  professional  interest  since  he 
sent  you  to  me.  Your  work  pleases  me.  Your  ideas  are 
youthful,  but  you'll  get  over  them.  There's  a  big  career 
in  store  for  you.  You  have  promise — a  lot  of  it.  You've 
done  enough  miscellaneous  work  to  satisfy  me  of  your 
ability  to  tackle  something  bigger.  Our  drama  man  is 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  147 

leaving,  and  I'm  going  to  give  you  his  work.  That  de 
partment  has  always  wielded  a  big  influence,  and  I  want 
its  character  sustained.  You  can  do  it,  but  you  must  be 
careful.  No  radicalism.  I've  read  your  play — our  man 
handed  it  to  me.  It  doesn't  represent  the  sort  of  ideal 
we  care  to  uphold.  I  want  you  to  get  the  modern  point 
of  view.  You  can,  and  you  know  how  to  write.  Remem 
ber  your  responsibility.  Don't  misunderstand  me.  We 
want  honest  criticism — and  not  popular  criticism  either. 
We  reach  the  better  class  of  theatre-goers.  Don't  write 
down,  but — don't  go  too  high/' 

West  was  gratified  with  the  honour  the  post  implied. 
It  was  too  much  to  hope  for  a  free  hand,  for  a  chance  to 
express  completely  his  heresies.  That  would  come  later. 
As  it  was,  he  could  at  least  write  without  stultification. 
He  had  become  an  appreciable  factor  in  his  new  life.  He 
felt  exalted  by  the  power  his  new  work  would  give  him. 
He  would  learn  much,  no  doubt.  It  would  be  a  rigorous 
training.  Exacting  demands  would  be  made  on  his  capa 
bilities.  The  first  faint  evidences  of  realism — an  im 
portation  from  France — were  being  felt  in  the  theatre. 
He  deplored  the  fact,  for  realizing  that  the  stage  was  an 
illusion,  he  felt  that  the  reproduction  of  nature  was  ob 
viously  a  fraud.  But  was  it,  after  all,  not  a  necessary 
step  ?  Perhaps  he  might  welcome  the  naturalistic  drama, 
even  fight  for  it,  and  still  be  consistent  with  his  ideas  of 
a  serene  and  undogmatic  culture.  The  Argonaut,  he 
knew,  would  uphold  him  in  his  course.  As  such  publica 
tions  went,  its  policy  was  decidedly  advanced. 

His  criticisms  proved  satisfactory.  As  the  weeks  went 
by  he  became  conscious  of  the  influence  of  his  opinions. 
He  clothed  them  in  vigorous  and  convincing  English. 
He  was  quick  to  detect  flaws  and  inconsistencies.  His 
analyses  were  deft  and  logical:  and  all  the  while  he  was 
acquiring  a  practical  experience  of  life.  He  was  be 
coming  surer  of  himself,  more  confident  of  his  ability  to 
reach  to  high  and  permanent  achievement.  His  eyes  were 


148  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

ever  on  the  future.  The  present  was  a  transition,  a  prep 
aration  for  greater  things.  The  spirit  of  the  conflict  en 
ticed  him.  His  work  exhibited  the  errors  and  the  splen 
dours  of  enthusiasm,  and  he  wrote  with  a  fine  sincerity. 
His  hands  were  busy  with  the  eternal  and  perpetual  stuff 
of  life. 

It  was  inevitable  that  he  should  have  been  thrown  in 
friendly  contact  with  other  participants  in  the  game  he 
had  elected  to  play.  He  did  nothing  to  avoid  the  com 
panionships  which  grew  up  easily  and  naturally  in  the 
course  of  his  activities.  He  found  in  the  men  and  women 
about  him  a  pleasant  diversion.  There  was  little  intellec 
tual  give-and-take.  His  nature  was  too  isolated  and  aris 
tocratic,  perhaps  too  subtle,  to  be  understood  in  its  inner 
most  functionings  by  those  whose  work  was  an  end  in 
itself  and  the  measure  of  their  ideals.  West  held  himself 
in  strict  reserve.  He  adapted  himself  to  his  environment ; 
and  because  he  understood  instinctively  the  secret  of 
politic  adjustment  he  was  at  once  liked  and  revered.  He 
had  a  proud  carriage,  slightly  assertive,  but  never  ag 
gressive.  His  bearing  was  easy  and  polished,  with  a 
trace  of  what  at  first  seemed  shyness,  but  what  proved  on 
acquaintance  to  be  a  sort  of  superior  tolerance,  a  def 
erence  which  the  solidity  of  his  nature  could  well  afford 
— a  leeway  of  submission  which  resulted  from  a  super 
abundance  of  self-confidence.  This  intellectual  placidity 
revealed  an  unobscured  outlook  behind  which  his  person 
ality  blazed  like  a  pure  flame. 

He  found  in  those  whose  lives  touched  his  on  its  in 
formal  side  a  relaxation  from  the  strenuous  duties  of 
his  work.  His  pleasures  were  of  a  more  serious  nature 
than  had  been  the  youthful  escapades  at  the  University. 
There  was  a  maturity  even  in  the  gayest  moments  of  his 
social  diversions  which  kept  him  conscious  of  the  serious 
side  of  his  life.  The  men  with  whom  he  associated  were 
held  together  by  the  common  bond  of  their  profession. 
Literary  small-talk  was  continually  breaking  out  during 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  149 

their  intercourse.  They  were  not  profound  men.  Their 
vision  was  limited  by  the  immediacy  of  their  interests. 
They  considered  the  temporary  effect  of  their  work  rather 
than  its  permanency.  But  West  easily  acquired  their 
viewpoint,  focusing  his  mind  on  the  details  of  his  new 
existence.  He  avoided  intimacy,  however;  there  was 
always  a  cloak  of  formality  on  his  actions. 

The  women  of  his  new  environment  interested  him 
more.  With  them  he  was  relieved  of  all  necessity  for 
mental  posturing.  They  were  informal  and  easy-going, 
spontaneous  and  attractive.  They  ignored  the  conven 
tions  and  lived  their  lives  according  to  their  moods.  To 
West  the  type  was  new  and  not  without  fascination.  He 
found  pleasure  in  calling  at  their  apartments,  joining 
their  dinners  at  down-town  restaurants,  dancing  with 
them  after  the  theatre.  His  loneliness  was  thus  dispersed. 
His  association  with  them  in  time  became  a  habit.  They, 
in  turn,  looked  upon  him  as  a  welcome  visitor.  He  had 
a  liveliness  of  mind  which  appealed  to  them.  He  knew 
how  to  meet  emergencies,  how  to  sympathize  and  how 
to  laugh.  He  had  acquired  an  exterior  of  worldliness, 
and  his  eyes  had  a  cynical  gleam  which  agreed  with  the 
cruelty  of  youth. 

Of  these  women  Margaret  Moore  was  the  youngest 
and  most  attractive.  Without  realizing  the  gradual 
growth  of  intimacy  which  their  constant  propinquity  had 
fostered,  West  one  night  was  confronted  with  the  knowl 
edge  that  she  had  interwoven  herself  into  his  desires. 
Formerly  he  had  thought  of  her  merely  as  one  of  the 
factors  of  his  new  life,  an  amiable  and  somewhat  piquant 
companion  for  his  lighter  hours.  He  had  never  been 
alone  with  her.  There  was  always  a  noisy,  democratic 
group  in  her  apartment,  joking,  laughing  and  singing, 
whenever  he  called  there;  and  her  attitude  toward  the 
men  she  knew  was  that  of  judicial  good-fellowship.  Her 
familiarity  with  many  men  had  at  first  puzzled  and  dis 
pleased  West.  That  was  when  he  had  been  new  to  the 


150  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Bohemianism  in  the  midst  of  which  he  found  himself. 
But  in  time  he  had  come  to  look  upon  the  license  of  his 
social  milieu  with  non-critical  and  approving  eyes.  Un 
moral  by  nature,  he  justified  to  himself  with  slight  diffi 
culty  the  informality  and  freedom  which  characterized 
the  actions  of  the  men  and  women  with  whom  he  was 
thrown.  In  accepting  this  lax  standard  he  acquired  an 
impersonal  viewpoint. 

He  began  to  drink.  He  took  little  enjoyment  in  it, 
but  found  difficulty  in  avoiding  it  when  all  those  about 
him  drank.  It  keyed  him  up  to  the  pitch  where  he  could 
fall  in  with  their  moods.  He  noticed  that  the  women 
drank  as  much  as  the  men.  This  fact  did  not  accord  with 
his  idea  of  propriety — an  idea  which  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  been  born  when  the  fact  first  came  to  his  attention. 
His  prejudice  though  was  soon  snuffed  out :  a  new  atmos 
phere  had  come  over  his  life  and  had  saturated  him  as 
thoroughly  as  if  it  had  been  a  wave  of  water.  He  had 
associated  drinking  only  with  one  type  of  woman,  but 
soon  attributed  his  previous  attitude  to  inexperience. 
Margaret  Moore  drank  more  than  the  others.  She 
gloried  in  her  indulgence.  West  watched  her  and  listened 
to  her  with  undisguised  fascination.  Her  tongue  was 
sharp,  her  laugh  vibrant.  She  knew  many  stories  and 
told  them  with  vividness  and  contagious  good-humour. 
Even  her  vulgarities  were  possessed  of  such  spontaneous 
wittiness  that  to  West  they  seemed  natural  and  irre 
proachable.  Nothing  affected  her  seriously.  Often  in 
the  midst  of  someone's  recital  of  grievances  she  would 
interject  a  remark  of  philosophical  levity,  and  the  whole 
tone  of  the  conversation  would  at  once  change. 

Margaret  Moore  was  twenty-five.  She  had  played 
ingenue  roles  in  road  productions  since  she  was  seven 
teen,  though  by  hard  work  and  perseverance  she  had 
recently  appeared  in  the  casts  of  two  New  York  plays. 
They  had  both  been  failures,  but  she  was  loath  to  drop 
back  into  her  former  position,  choosing  to  gamble  with 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  151 

larger  stakes  rather  than  accept  the  surety  of  secondary 
engagements.  The  stage  was  her  life.  Her  ambitions 
were  all-consuming;  and  she  had  no  dreams  save  those 
of  personal  success.  She  had  kept  young  for  she  knew 
the  secrets  of  dress.  To  those  unacquainted  with  her  his 
tory  she  posed  as  twenty,  and  no  one  questioned  the  truth 
of  her  statement.  Her  real  name  was  not  known  even 
to  her  most  intimate  friends.  She  had  broken  com 
pletely  and  irrevocably  with  her  childhood  ties.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  awakened  for  the  first  time  in  a  strange 
and  hostile  world  at  her  accession  to  womanhood.  No 
one  had  ever  interrogated  her,  and  she  vouchsafed  noth 
ing.  She  lived  in  a  meagre  degree  of  comfort.  She 
was  able  to  clothe  herself  attractively,  but  she  was  always 
on  the  edge  of  poverty.  She  complained  good-naturedly 
of  her  enforced  economies,  as  if  she  were  afraid  some 
one  would  suspect  her  of  having  money.  "If  some 
profitable  part  doesn't  turn  up  soon,  I  don't  know  what 
I'll  do,"  she  would  say.  But  for  over  a  year  she  had 
been  idle,  and  yet  there  was  always  enough  money  for 
the  necessities,  for  occasional  clothes,  for  little  excur 
sions  and  entertainments.  Her  financial  condition  never 
varied.  All  the  facts  of  her  existence  pointed  to  a  small 
but  regular  income.  There  was  speculation,  but  no  one 
ever  learned  the  source  of  her  livelihood. 

She  had  a  capacity  for  being  agreeable.  She  was  gen 
erous  within  her  limitations.  She  knew  the  art  of  en 
tertaining.  She  was  gregarious  by  nature,  and  fond  of 
people  in  the  aggregate.  Her  spirit  of  catholicity  made 
itself  felt  subterraneously.  Consequently  her  rooms  at 
tracted  visitors.  She  had  a  piano  which  she  played  mod 
erately  well ;  and  there  was  always  wine  and  brandy  with 
which  she  was  prodigal.  West  had  taken  an  unadulter 
ated  pleasure  in  passing  his  free  evenings  with  her.  At 
her  apartment  there  were  men  who  knew  his  work  and 
admired  him,  and  there  was  also  a  feminine  fellowship 
whose  spuriousness  he  did  not  sense  because  to  him  the 


152  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

experience  was  new.  The  women  called  him  by  his  first 
name,  and  talked  easily  of  intimate  things.  At  times  he 
sat  with  his  arms  about  one  of  them,  and  not  infrequently 
he  kissed  them  at  departure.  There  was  no  sentiment 
implied  by  such  actions  either  on  his  part  or  theirs.  He 
had  often  kissed  Margaret  Moore  in  just  such  a  fashion, 
unemotionally  and  impersonally.  And  he  had  seen  other 
men  indulge  in  the  same  informal  amenity.  He  had 
given  no  thought  to  the  act.  He  had  never  associated 
it  with  passion.  He  accepted  it  as  he  would  the  unfa 
miliar  etiquette  or  customs  of  an  exotic  people. 

But  one  night  in  midwinter,  after  an  unusually  de 
pressing  day's  work,  he  had  turned  toward  her  rooms 
with  a  pleasurable  anticipation  of  solace  and  revitaliza- 
tion.  As  he  walked  through  the  bleak  and  icy  streets  he 
called  up  the  familiar  surroundings  of  her  apartment — 
the  deep  wicker  chairs,  the  cluttered  table,  the  rep-covered 
divan,  the  gold-framed  cheval-glass,  the  little  open  hearth, 
the  chafing  dish,  the  innumerable  photographs,  the  hang 
ing  baskets  and  the  enormous  Japanese  lantern.  They  all 
seemed  to  fill  a  specific  void  in  his  life.  They  meant  more 
to  him  than  he  had  imagined.  They  had  become  almost 
a  necessary  complement  to  his  office  routine. 

As  he  hurried  on  to  them,  the  vision  of  Margaret 
Moore  disengaged  itself  from  the  familiar  faces  about 
her.  He  could  not  think  of  her  impersonally.  She  sud 
denly  assumed  an  individual  importance,  and  West  real 
ized  that  she  alone  was  guiding  his  instinct  toward  her 
rooms.  He  visualized  her  apart  from  the  others,  and  at 
once  experienced  a  pleasurable  sensation.  He  even  re 
sented  the  fact  that  she  would  not  be  alone  when  he 
should  arrive.  He  let  his  imagination  play  about  her. 
He  recalled  the  kisses  she  had  given  him.  He  thought 
again  of  her  smiles,  of  her  warm  hand-clasps,  of  her 
intimate  words.  It  occurred  to  him  they  had  been  dif 
ferent  from  those  she  had  given  the  others.  One  night 
as  he  had  sat  beside  her  on  the  divan  she  had  leaned 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  153 

toward  him  slightly  so  that  her  body  rested  close  against 
his.  Had  this  been  an  unconscious  act?  He  tried  to  con 
vince  himself  that  in  her  treatment  of  him  there  had  been 
an  undercurrent  of  affection  which  he  alone  had  per 
ceived,  that  beneath  her  exterior  of  impartiality  there 
lurked  a  desire  which  only  he  might  gratify.  It  pleased 
him  to  believe  that  this  might  be  so. 

For  a  week  afterward  West  was  conscious  of  her  pres 
ence.  He  derived  a  delectable  emotion  by  letting  his  mind 
recall  her  kisses  and  the  numerous  attentions  she  heaped 
on  him  whenever  he  visited  her.  There  was  no  longer 
any  doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of  her  actions. 

One  night  a  dapper  young  man,  a  writer  of  popular 
magazine  stories,  taking  advantage  of  a  lull  in  the  conver 
sation,  turned  to  her  in  feigned  anger.  "Marge,"  he 
chided  her  in  mock  distress,  "how  can  you  be  so  heart 
less  as  to  devastate  the  lives  of  us  who  love  you  madly 
and  passionately  by  heaping  your  charms  entirely  upon 
Brother  West?"  He  wept  ostensibly  into  his  napkin. 

"Sh-h-h-h!"  she  warned  in  a  loud  whisper.  "Every 
wise  actress  wooes  a  critic." 

The  incident  furnished  West's  dreams  with  tangible 
food.  He  no  longer  doubted  his  perception  in  her  re 
gard.  His  sexual  nature,  for  months  quiescent,  awoke 
once  more  with  its  old  fervour.  He  began  speculating 
on  the  possibilities  of  a  menage  wherein  she  would  fill  the 
place  Irene  Brenner  had  once  held.  He  hesitated  in  his 
contemplation  of  this  eventuality,  remembering  the  tragic 
consequences  of  the  earlier  episode.  But  in  the  intoxica 
tion  of  his  new  passion  his  doubts  were  stifled.  Margaret 
Moore  was  different.  And  had  he  too  not  undergone  a 
fundamental  change?  He  had  matured.  He  had  in  a 
measure  become  the  master  of  his  destiny.  His  position 
had  become  solidified.  He  had  learned  the  transitoriness 
of  love,  and  that  knowledge,  he  believed,  had  made  him 
immune.  The  girl  herself  understood  his  needs.  Like 
him  she  had  ambitions.  Surely  he  would  have  nothing 


154  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

to  fear  from  such  an  alliance.  The  affair  would  run  its 
course  and  melt  away  into  other  events,  answering  to  the 
needs  of  a  new  order. 

One  day  he  received  a  note  asking  him  to  come  to  her 
that  evening.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  written 
him  or  had  offered  him  a  definite  invitation.  The  fact 
intrigued  him,  although  he  instinctively  felt  that  her  ac 
tion  was  an  outgrowth  of  the  silent  and  unspoken  desire 
she  had  for  him — a  desire  to  which  her  actions  had  at 
tested.  The  hours  of  the  day  went  slowly.  His  work 
dragged,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  discharged  his 
tasks.  He  hurried  to  her  after  a  scanty  dinner,  his  whole 
being  animated  by  a  feverish  eagerness.  He  found  her 
alone.  As  he  stood  before  her,  holding  her  outstretched 
hand,  there  leapt  between  their  eyes  a  silent  understand 
ing  of  the  impulses  which  stirred  them.  That  she  had 
chosen  to  be  alone  when  he  came  was  but  the  consumma 
tion  of  her  actions  during  the  past  weeks.  It  was  a  con 
fession  of  the  inner  cause  which  had  actuated  the  tender 
ness  and  interest  she  had  displayed  toward  him.  By  this 
act  she  had  dispersed  any  miasma  of  hypocritical  con 
ventionality  which  West  might  have  expected  when  the 
time  came  for  a  frank  acknowledgment  of  their  passion. 
The  barriers  were  down.  He  had  won  the  conquest 
through  her  tacit  surrender  before  a  word  had  been 
spoken  or  a  vow  made. 

He  closed  the  door  and,  locking  it,  turned  to  her  with 
out  a  word.  She  was  standing  beneath  the  Japanese  lan 
tern  in  the  shadow  thrown  by  its  base.  Her  head  was 
bowed  and  one  hand  was  clasped  against  her  breast.  She 
wore  a  crepe  de  chine  house  frock  of  deep  neutralized 
yellow.  High  above  her  waist  a  wide  ultramarine  sash 
was  drawn  tightly  and  twis.ted  into  a  bow,  the  ends  of 
which  hung  nearly  to  the  floor,  meeting  and  blending 
with  her  blue  silken  slippers  and  stockings.  In  her  atti 
tude  of  resignation  she  appeared  to  West  incredibly 
young,  more  like  a  child  than  a  woman.  Her  competency 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  155 

and  experience  seemed  suddenly  to  have  fallen  from 
her.  He  had  never  associated  weakness  with  her ;  rather 
had  he  felt  a  security  in  the  circle  of  her  personality.  But 
at  the  sight  of  her  now  his  old  sense  of  dominance  rose 
up.  She  had  ceased  to  be  a  companion.  She  was  his  prey 
—a  challenge  to  him  to  assert  his  power.  He  went  to 
her  resolutely,  as  he  might  have  approached  a  physical 
antagonist,  his  muscles  tense  with  the  instinct  of  the 
conqueror.  His  arms  went  about  her,  and  he  hugged 
her  to  him  till  he  heard  her  catch  her  breath.  With  one 
hand  he  drew  back  her  head  that  he  might  look  squarely 
in  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  her  lips  apart ;  and  on 
her  features  was  an  expression  of  expectant  fear.  For  a 
moment  West  gloated  in  the  possession  of  her.  Then 
his  mouth  met  hers  in  a  final  sustained  kiss. 

An  hour  later  the  girl  spoke.  Her  voice  sounded 
strained  and  unnatural  at  the  end  of  the  long  silence  that 
had  settled  about  them. 

"I  was  afraid  you  couldn't  come,  dear."  She  was  sit 
ting  on  the  floor  before  the  hearth,  resting1  her  head 
against  West's  knees.  She  was  crying  gently,  but  when 
she  spoke  she  smiled.  "I  told  all  the  others  not  to  come 
— that  I  had  a  headache  and  was  going  to  bed.  ...  I 
wanted  you — alone.  Do  you  know  it's  the  first  time 
we've  ever  been  together  without  other  people  around  us  ? 
I  got  so  I  hated  the  sight  of  them.  They  seemed  like 
.  .  .  enemies  ...  or  spies.  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer.  I  wanted  to  take  you  in  my  arms  and  .  .  .  really 
kiss  you.  I  wanted  you  to  know  how  much  I  ...  truly 
loved  you.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  I  wasn't  sure  whether — 
whether  you  really  .  .  .  cared  for  me.  Sometimes  I 
thought  you  did,  but  then  ...  I  couldn't  see  why  you — 
— you  should  think  more  of  me  than  you  did  of  the 
others."  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  pretence  of  fright. 
"But  you  do — don't  you?  Tell  me,  dear  ...  do  you 
truly  and  truly  love  me?" 

West  was  caught  in  the  strong  heat  of  his  passion. 


156  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"More  than  I've  ever  loved  anyone,"  he  told  her.  He 
did  not  doubt  his  words.  His  mind  travelled  back  to 
Irene  Brenner.  He  had  difficulty  in  accounting  for  the 
fact  that  he  had  allowed  her  to  bring  about  his  failure  at 
the  University.  She  had  passed  from  his  life  completely 
and  irretrievably.  His  emotion  for  her  was  as  dead  as 
if  it  had  never  existed.  She  had  left  no  sentimental  scars 
on  his  nature.  The  memory  of  his  intimacy  with  her  was 
vague  and  indeterminate.  He  might  as  well  have  been 
a  spectator  of  another's  passion  for  all  the  personal  im 
pression  the  affair  had  made  on  him.  Beside  the  warm 
reality  of  the  present,  his  earlier  love  struck  him  as 
being  cold  and  immature.  Now  that  it  was  but  a  memory 
of  a  distant  past  its  very  essence  seemed  alien  to  his  life. 
It  had  been  commonplace,  fraught  with  familiarity.  Its 
colour  was  subdued.  It  was  without  the  heat,  the  rap 
ture,  the  mystery  and  the  illusion  of  this  new  love  for 
Margaret  Moore.  And  his  early  sentiment  for  Alice 
Carlisle  had  been  little  more  than  a  bloodless  childhood 
romance.  He  smiled  inwardly  at  his  naivete  when  he 
recalled  his  declaration  of  love  for  her.  What  could  he 
have  known  of  love  then?  He  resented  the  victory  of 
both  her  and  Irene  Brenner.  They  had  taken  advantage 
of  his  youth  and  inexperience.  He  had  been  unable  to 
judge  them,  for  he  had  then  been  without  perspective, 
without  a  basis  of  comparison.  From  his  present  posi 
tion  he  regarded  his  past  with  the  mind  of  a  man  looking 
back  cynically  and  with  a  sense  of  shame  upon  the  follies 
of  a  boy.  .  .  . 

Margaret  Moore  reached  for  his  hand  and  drew  it  to 
her  lips. 

"You  will  never  let  anyone  take  you  from  me?"  she 
asked.  "Now  that  I  have  you,  I'm  jealous  of  every  other 
woman  in  the  world.  Some  day  you'll  be  such  a  great 
man.  .  .  .  You'll  be  sought  after  by  women  who  can 
.  .  .  give  you  so  much  more  than  I  can.  But  I'll  try 
hard  to  make  you  proud  of  me." 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  157 

How  different  she  was  now  from  her  usual  self!  All 
her  lightness  and  triviality  had  disappeared.  Her  cloak 
of  sophistication  had  been  dropped.  There  were  no 
longer  any  artificial  poses  or  temperamental  tropes. 
West  felt  that  for  the  first  time  he  had  beheld  her  true 
nature — a  nature  tender  and  dependent  and  clinging. 

"No  one  can  take  me  from  you,"  he  consoled  her. 
"Some  day — before  very  long — you,  too,  will  be  a  great 
success.  You  will  be  known  everywhere.  We'll  both  be 
busy  and  happy  .  .  .  conquering  the  world." 

She  hesitated  before  replying.  Then  she  said,  watch 
ing  him  closely:  "If  I  only  had  a  chance  ...  I  know  I 
could  make  you  proud  of  me.  But  I've  worked  so  hard 
for  years — and  what  has  it  all  amounted  to?  When  I 
try  to  get  a  good  engagement  there's  always  someone 
else  who  .  .  .  wins  out — someone  with  influence.  A 
girl  doesn't  have  a  fair  chance  unless  .  .  .  she's  willing 
to  pay  the  price." 

West  was  not  unfamiliar  with  theatrical  methods.  He 
knew  the  truth  of  her  words.  He  had  been  quick  to 
learn  the  hidden  workings  of  the  stage.  He  had  looked 
on  at  the  mechanism  of  the  system  which  governed  dra 
matic  productions,  and  he  had  protested  against  it  as  far 
as  his  paper  had  allowed  him.  Already  in  his  brief 
experience  he  had  seen  women  featured  who  had  no 
histrionic  claim  to  their  positions.  He  had  beheld  other 
women,  competent  and  deserving,  crowded  out  by  the 
ruthless  injustice  of  personal  considerations.  And  now 
the  inequitability  of  selective  theatrical  methods  had 
reached  out  and  touched  the  girl  he  loved.  A  wave  of 
anger  passed  over  him.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he,  too,  had  power  and  influence.  He  suddenly  resolved 
to  use  it. 

"Maybe  we  can  find  a  way,"  he  said. 


XVII 

WEST'S  life  with  Margaret  Moore  assumed  a  character 
alien  to  his  speculations.  He  had  preconceived  it  as  not 
entirely  unlike  his  existence  with  Irene  Brenner,  only  he 
had  imagined  that  all  worry  and  strife  would  be  elimi 
nated,  that  only  the  joys  and  comforts  of  his  earlier  pas 
sion  would  have  place  in  his  new  alliance.  He  had 
counted  on  Margaret  Moore's  experience  and  understand 
ing.  She  had  shown  an  almost  masculine  capacity  for 
comradeship,  and  his  own  welfare  had  at  all  times  seemed 
her  chief  concern.  He  could  not  picture  her  in  the  role  of 
a  self-centred  pleasure  seeker,  willing  to  sacrifice  his  fu 
ture  to  her  temporary  happiness.  He  had  looked  at  the 
matter  coldly  before  committing  himself  to  her  love.  He 
had  long  since  learned  caution,  and  he  shrank  from  a 
repetition  of  his  University  episode,  no  matter  how 
great  the  compensation  might  be  in  physical  ecstasy.  He 
was  too  greatly  concerned  with  the  possibilities  his  future 
offered.  His  egoism  had  become  more  assertive.  His 
belief  in  his  intellectual  prowess  had  become  an  in 
grained  conviction.  He  stood  ready  to  sacrifice  the 
emoluments  of  the  present  to  the  glory  beyond  the  dawn. 

It  was  during  this  time  that  his  mind  became  crowded 
with  dazzling  and  resplendent  achievements.  He  clung 
fondly  to  those  visions  of  to-morrow's  triumphs.  They 
alone  were  the  submerged  realities  of  existence :  all  else 
was  esoteric,  shadowy,  phantoms  dimly  comprehended. 
The  clear  flame  of  his  dreams  robbed  his  actual  life  of 
all  corporeality,  just  as  moonlight  strips  the  substance 
from  the  images  of  nature  at  night.  He  could  see  his 
future  attenuated  through  the  occult  and  unsound  dark- 

158 


fUM/y  f    ^Lc/^tXr 

THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  159 

ness  of  the  unborn  years  like  a  chalk  line  upon  a  black 
board.  These  visions  of  his  imaginary  accomplishments 
were  vague  and  befuddled,  but  they  had  tenacity  and 
sumptuousness,  and  marched  past  him  like  a  gorgeous 
army  with  fluttering  pennons  and  glistening  spears, 
militant,  brave,  resolute  and  indomitable.  His  pulses 
beat  as  to  the  rhythmic  tread  of  soldiers.  His  spirit  was 
seduced  and  his  brain  reeled  with  the  intoxication  of  an 
unswervable  belief  in  his  own  infallibility. 

To  this  feeling  of  power  Margaret  Moore  had  in  fact 
contributed.  He  knew  she  could  not  follow  him  to  the 
heights  toward  which  he  was  pushing,  but  he  felt  in  her 
an  instinctive  faith  which  did  not  question  the  final  mean 
ing  of  his  ideals,  but  which  accepted  blindly  the  ambitions 
he  strove  to  achieve.  And  then  there  was  the  primitive 
appeal  of  her  sensuality  unencumbered  by  demands.  This 
alone  would  have  made  her  acceptable  to  him.  But  the 
realities  of  their  life  together  did  not  harmonize  with  his 
dreams  of  what  it  was  to  have  been.  Though  she  did 
not  maliciously  interfere  with  his  work,  her  attitude  had 
subtly  changed  from  one  of  helpful  interest  to  one  of  in 
difference.  When  he  reproached  her  for  her  apathy 
toward  his  writings  she  was  contrite,  but  her  contrition 
was  obviously  insincere.  Yet  she  seemed  genuinely  eager 
that  he  should  succeed.  West  was  puzzled ;  but  since  she 
never  interfered  with  his  duties,  he  dismissed  the  problem 
as  one  which  could  be  solved  only  by  comprehending 
the  whimsicalities  of  her  nature.  After  all  it  was  a  minor 
matter.  It  was  enough  to  be  permitted  to  work  without 
hindrance. 

During  his  first  week  with  her  he  had  been  contented 
and  mildly  happy,  although  the  spirit  of  romance  to 
which  he  had  looked  forward  had  not  entered  into  their 
relationship.  The  mystery,  even  the  novelty  of  his  new 
experience,  was  shortlived.  The  allurement  of  her  body 
had  passed  after  the  first  few  violent  raptures  of  posses 
sion.  The  flame  of  his  passion  had  flared  up  brightly  and 


160  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

straightway  died  out.  It  had  been  supplanted  by  a  com 
fortable,  but  unemotional,  atmosphere  of  habitualized 
acceptance  and  calm  resignation.  Despite  the  increased 
intimacy  of  their  relations  each  had  gradually  drawn 
away  from  the  other  until  their  conversation  had  once 
more  grown  careless  and  impersonal.  But  the  very  in 
formalities  and  immodesties  of  their  life  together  wove 
about  them  a  net  which  held  them  to  each  other  as 
securely  as  an  anxious  love  might  have  done.  Habit 
played  a  large  part  in  the  affair.  West  felt  a  strong  at 
tachment  for  the  repeated  details  of  his  new  social 
routine :  they  fitted  into  his  life  securely,  filling  the  empty 
hours  of  his  evenings  when  he  was  too  fatigued  to  pur 
sue  his  personal  writings.  Then  there  was  in  the  girl's 
constant  nearness  a  mild  gratification  for  his  ever  per 
sistent  instinct  for  mastery.  The  necessity  to  have  some 
one  about  whom  he  could  dominate  was  an  infixed  at 
tribute  of  his  character. 

Again,  Margaret  Moore  was  the  means  of  his  exerting 
his  influence  in  other  quarters.  The  day  following  the 
consummation  of  their  love  he  had  called  on  the  producer 
of  a  new  play  and  recommended  her  inclusion  in  its  cast. 
He  had  been  astonished  at  the  readiness  with  which  his 
suggestion  was  acted  on.  It  had  made  him  conscious  of 
the  practical  nature  of  his  influence;  and  had  given  him 
the  temerity  to  demand  of  another  producer  that  the  girl 
be  given  a  leading  role  in  another  forthcoming  piece. 
Here  he  had  encountered  some  difficulty.  Both  the  man 
ager  and  the  author  had  other  plans  from  which  they  were 
disinclined  to  deviate.  But  he  played  his  hand  with 
diplomacy,  promising  a  support  in  which  he  convinced 
himself  he  was  justified.  He  believed  he  was  able  to 
judge  the  girl  impartially.  He  saw  in  her  the  victim  of 
an  unjust  system.  He  was  sure  of  her  talent;  and  the 
fact  that  he  had  met  with  opposition  urged  him  on  to 
force  a  successful  outcome  of  his  plan.  He  went  so  far 
as  to  request  the  co-operation  of  two  other  critics.  In  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  161 

end  he  obtained  an  accession  to  his  demands.  The  play 
ran  for  six  weeks.  He  gave  it  a  favourable  review.  It 
contained  elements  which  permitted  him  to  eulogize  it 
without  abrogating  his  former  criteria.  He  was  genu 
inely  enthusiastic  over  the  girl's  performance,  not  realiz 
ing  that  he  regarded  her  through  the  mists  of  his  sexual 
desires.  His  praise  of  her  had  the  ring  of  sincerity,  and  the 
other  critics  who  respected  him  and  the  paper  for  which 
he  wrote,  began  to  question  their  own  indifference  to  her 
acting.  His  criticism  was  judiciously  quoted  by  the 
management  of  the  play,  and  Margaret  Moore's  picture 
began  to  appear  in  the  daily  papers  with  sympathetic 
title-lines.  The  press-agent  had  been  quick  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  situation,  and  before  the  play  had  run  its 
course  the  girl's  position  had  for  the  moment  been  estab 
lished.  West  had  paid  for  her  gowns  out  of  his  savings, 
for  her  photographs  and  for  the  other  items  incident  to 
her  work. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  their  intercourse  had  assumed 
a  new  tenor.  She  exerted  little  moderation  in  her  drink 
ing.  At  first  he  had  given  scant  thought  to  her  habit  of 
starting  the  day  with  a  glass  of  brandy  and  soda.  But  the 
continual  repetition  of  the  act,  coupled  with  her  unre 
strained  drinking  at  night,  began  to  affect  him  unpleas 
antly.  The  regularity  of  the  practice  revolted  him.  When  * 
he  remonstrated  with  her,  she  refused  to  take  him  seri 
ously,  chiding  him  for  his  scruples.  She  had  become  care 
less  of  her  personal  appearance,  and  West  had  begun  to 
notice  her  age.  There  were  times  when  she  appeared 
many  years  older  than  when  he  had  first  seen  her.  She 
had  grown  slovenly.  At  first  she  had  taken  scrupulous 
care  of  their  rooms,  and  had  always  insisted  on  their  hav 
ing  dinner  in  the  apartment.  Of  late  she  had  suggested 
their  going  out,  pleading  lack  of  time  or  disinclination  to 
prepare  the  meal.  Now  their  dining  out  had  become  a 
fixed  habit.  Heretofore  she  had  risen  and  set  the  break 
fast  for  him;  but  even  this  practice  she  had  now  aban- 


1 62  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

doned.  She  had  complained  of  her  sleepiness  in  the 
mornings.  Her  rehearsals  took  all  her  strength,  she  had 
told  West.  After  that  he  rose  quietly  and  prepared  his 
own  breakfast.  But  at  length  he  found  that  the  dishes 
from  the  previous  day  were  rarely  washed,  and  he  went 
back  to  his  old  custom  of  breakfasting  at  restaurants.  He 
attributed  the  girl's  shortcomings  to  her  work  at  the 
theatre,  and  tried  to  console  himself  for  his  discomfitures 
by  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  they  would  have 
sufficient  money  to  hire  servants.  Although  their  com 
bined  salaries  would  have  permitted  them  a  certain  de 
gree  of  luxury,  her  money  disappeared  every  week  for 
the  payments  of  debts  she  said  had  accumulated  during 
the  past  year.  It  took  all  he  earned  to  maintain  their 
menage,  and  he  hesitated  to  touch  the  savings  of  his  first 
months  in  the  city.  He  would  need  them  later  when  he 
should  strike  out  alone  in  his  personal  work. 

West  went  to  Greenwood  for  two  days  at  holiday  time. 
The  clear  air  of  the  country,  the  quietude,  the  comfort 
of  his  home,  the  tender  administrations  of  his  mother, 
produced  in  him  a  sense  of  tranquillity,  of  unassailable 
content.  His  maturity  seemed  but  a  masquerade  he  had 
been  wearing  during  the  past  months.  Amid  the  quiet 
scenes  of  his  early  life  it  fell  from  him.  His  emotions 
again  became  those  of  the  boy  he  had  been.  But  over 
his  spirit  there  hung  an  atmosphere  of  melancholy.  His 
home  was  like  the  ghost  of  something  precious  which  had 
long  since  died.  The  river  he  had  once  loved  was  frozen ; 
the  trees  which  held  for  him  so  many  early  memories 
were  bare ;  the  hills  which  had  mothered  him  during  the 
first  fierce  urgings  of  his  awakening  nature,  were  bleak 
and  inhospitable.  All  these  things  seemed  to  symbolize 
the  desolation  of  his  youth.  He  yearned  again  for  the 
lonely  silent  days,  for  the  clean  rapture  of  his  boyhood. 
In  his  old  study,  aware  of  the  nearness  of  those  who 
loved  him  most,  he  tasted  once  more  of  the  irredeemable 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  163 

serenity  and  peace  which  seemed  to  have  passed  forever 
from  his  life. 

The  day  of  his  departure,  as  he  walked  down  the  snow- 
covered  street  from  his  father's  College,  living  again 
the  days  he  had  once  thought  bitter,  he  saw  before  him 
the  slim  figure  of  a  girl.  Suddenly  he  felt  a  stir  in  his 
blood,  a  welling  up  of  dead  emotions.  An  unaccountable 
tenderness  took  hold  of  him,  and  he  hurried  toward  her 
without  questioning  the  impulse  that  guided  him.  As  he 
took  her  arm  gently  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  the  heated 
dream  of  the  immediate  past  was  blotted  out.  He  seemed 
to  pick  up  the  thread  of  his  life  where  he  had  left  it  when 
he  and  Alice  Carlisle  stood  together  on  Crow's  Nest  and 
vowed  their  eternal  love  amid  their  first  tragic  tears. 

For  a  moment  something  constricted  his  throat.  He 
heard  the  one  word,  "Alice,"  escape  his  lips.  He  scarcely 
recognized  his  own  voice.  The  girl  did  not  speak  for  a 
time.  She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  almost  appeal- 
ingly;  and  in  that  look  West  beheld  an  infinite  pathos, 
something  elementally  and  eternally  tragic.  Somehow 
her  eyes  accused  him  and  filled  him  with  shame.  The 
ineluctable  sorrow  he  read  in  them  passed  into  his  own 
heart  and  became  a  part  of  him.  Then,  recovering  her 
self,  the  girl  smiled.  There  was  a  brief  and  strained 
interchange  of  banalities,  and  they  walked  on  together 
toward  the  station. 

She  spoke  of  his  work  with  unfeigned  intimacy. 

"Every  week  I  read  what  you  write,"  she  said.  "It 
seems  hard  to  believe  you  are  so  young.  Oh,  but  some 
day  you'll  be  a  great  man !" 

"Will  you  care?"  The  words  came  out  before  West 
realized  it,  yet,  for  some  reason  he  could  not  analyse,  it 
seemed  that  much  depended  on  her  answer. 

She  hesitated.  Then  she  answered  softly :  "Of  course, 
I  shall  care."  It  was  not  so  much  her  words  as  her  tone 
that  warmed  West's  whole  being. 

"Have  you  really  faith  in  me?"  he  asked  next, 


1 64  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

She  smiled  with  tender  assurance. 

"I  shall  always  have  faith  in  you.  No  matter  what 
happens  or  what  you  do  I  shall  never  lose  that  faith. 
...  I  haven't  anyone  to  believe  in  now  but  you." 

West  looked  at  her  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  that 
she  was  in  mourning.  He  reached  for  her  hand  and  held 
it  tightly. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  slowly.  "I'm  sorry  for  every 
thing.  I  feel  that  I've  done  you  a  great  wrong.  But  I 
meant  it  all  then.  You  must  forgive  me." 

"I  know,  Stanford."  The  girl  spoke  bravely.  "That's 
all  over  now.  You  mustn't  think  about  it  ...  ever. 
You  have  your  work  to  do,  and  nothing — not  even  the 
slightest  regret — 'must  ever  interfere  with  it.  You  were 
only  a  boy  then  .  .  .  you  didn't  know.  I  ...  ought  to 
have  known,  but — I  was  so  young  then  myself." 

They  were  in  the  station  now.  The  snow  had  begun 
to  fall.  A  cold  wind  blew  the  flakes  spasmodically  against 
the  window  panes.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  a  large  stove 
glowed  red  with  fire.  A  romantic  lethargy  stole  over 
West.  He  did  not  want  to  go  away.  His  future  ap 
peared  stormy  and  chill  like  the  weather.  Here  it  was 
warm  and  restful,  and  the  presence  of  Alice  Carlisle  per 
meated  him  with  solacing  contentment.  Her  hand  was 
still  in  his,  and  there  was  reborn  in  him  the  soft  thrill 
that  had  accompanied  his  first  consciousness  of  love. 

From  the  distance  came  the  muffled  whistle  of  the 
approaching  train.  West  turned  to  the  girl  quickly. 

"I  did  mean  it,  Alice,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
meant  every  word  of  it.  And  I  don't  want  to  go  from 
you  now.  .  .  ." 

She  turned  toward  him,  and  he  caught  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her.  Then  he  arose  suddenly,  flushed. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  stammered.  "I'm  a  brute.  ...  I 
shouldn't  have  done  it.  ...  That  kiss  was  a  lie.  I 
don't  understand — but  try  to  forget  .  .  .  what  I  did. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  165 

It  was  wrong — only  I  couldn't  help  it.  ...  Tell  me  you 
won't  think  of  it.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  held  out  her  hand  without  looking  up. 

"Good-bye."    West  could  barely  hear  her. 

He  took  her  hand  a  second,  and  went  without  another 
word. 

West  re-entered  New  York  with  a  heavy  heart.  He 
tried  to  analyse  the  source  of  his  depression,  but  failed. 
He  went  direct  to  his  rooms  hoping  to  find  stimulation  in 
Margaret  Moore.  It  was  late  afternoon:  already  the 
darkness  had  begun  to  fall.  He  rang  the  bell  several 
times;  then  let  himself  in  with  his  key.  The  place  was 
empty.  The  embers  in  the  hearth  were  cold.  Gloom  and 
chill  were  over  all.  He  lighted  the  gas  and  drew  the 
shades.  As  he  looked  about  him  he  recoiled  at  the  sor- 
didness  of  his  surroundings.  So  gradually  had  come  the 
many  changes  over  his  new  mode  of  living  that  he  had 
not  noticed  them.  One  by  one  they  had  crept  upon  him, 
and  he,  blinded  by  the  novelty  of  his  worldly  existence, 
had  not  felt  them.  Greenwood  had  awakened  him  with 
its  spring-tide  of  old  memories.  The  squalor  of  his  soul 
had  been  cleansed  by  the  revisioning  of  his  love  for  Alice 
Carlisle. 

He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  suffocated  by  the 
heavy  atmosphere.  The  degradation  of  it  all!  On  the 
piano  were  numerous  glasses  sticky  with  dried  fluid.  On 
the  floor  by  the  divan  was  an  empty  decanter.  Sheets  of 
music  were  scattered  about.  Dirty  dishes  were  piled 
on  the  table,  some  with  stale  food  in  them,  others  black 
with  ashes.  There  were  more  ashes  on  the  floor,  and 
crushed  cigarette  ends.  The  furniture  was  in  disarray. 
In  the  kitchen  he  could  hear  the  dripping  of  water.  He 
passed  on  into  the  sleeping  room.  The  bed  was  unmade. 
There  was  soiled  linen  on  the  floor.  The  window  and 
curtain  were  down,  and  the  air  was  close.  A  fashion 
magazine  lay  open  on  a  chair.  Powder  had  been  spilled 


1 66  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

on  the  dark  red  cover  of  the  commode.  The  little  silver 
clock  on  the  mantel  had  stopped. 

As  he  returned  to  the  main  room  he  heard  a  key  in  the 
door,  and  in  another  moment  Margaret  Moore  stood 
before  him.  She  smiled  languidly,  and  waved  to  him 
jovially  with  one  hand.  With  the  other  she  steadied 
herself  against  the  door.  Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  were  glazed.  West  had  often  seen  her  under  the 
influence  of  drink,  but  now,  for  some  reason  he  did  not 
attempt  to  explain,  the  sight  of  her  disgusted  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  boy?"  she  called  gaily,  study 
ing  him  with  nonchalant  quizzicality.  "You  look  wor 
ried.  I  know  what  you  need — a  little  bracer."  She  went 
unsteadily  toward  the  kitchen. 

West  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  jerked  her  round. 
She  retreated  from  him  and  sat  down. 

"A  damned  pleasant  return  I've  had!"  he  commented 
bitterly.  "To  come  back  to  a  cold,  dirty  apartment  like 
this — with  you  not  even  here :  and  then  to  have  you  come 
in  drunk!" 

She  looked  at  him  angrily,  but  said  nothing.  Taking 
off  her  gloves  and  coat,  she  threw  them  on  the  divan. 

"Hang  them  up,"  West  demanded.  "There's  enough 
clutter  here  already." 

She  obeyed  him  sullenly. 

"Now  go  to  bed."    His  tone  was  peremptory. 

She  regarded  him  a  moment,  and  then  laughed. 

"Nothing  in  the  world  could  keep  me  up,  dearie,"  she 
answered  carelessly. 

The  next  morning  West  rose  early  and  went  out  for 
his  breakfast.  When  he  returned  Margaret  Moore  was 
up.  Her  appearance  emphasized  the  revulsion  he  had  felt 
toward  her  the  previous  night.  Her  hair  was  uncombed. 
There  were  conspicuous  lines  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
were  still  heavy  with  sleep.  Her  dressing-gown  was 
soiled  and  spotted  with  cigarette  ash.  Her  pale  blue 
stockings  were  wrinkled  about  her  ankles,  and  the  pompon 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  167 

was  missing  from  one  of  her  slippers.  She  was  drinking 
a  cup  of  tea  and  smoking  a  cigarette. 

West  waited  till  she  had  finished. 

"Now  suppose  you  do  a  little  housework,"  he  said,  "and 
get  this  place  fit  to  live  in." 

"You're  getting  tired  of  me,  aren't  you?"  She 
asked  the  question  scornfully  as  if  she  did  not  care  what 
his  answer  would  be. 

But  West,  too,  was  indifferent.  For  the  moment  he 
welcomed  the  prospect  of  a  dissolution  of  their  relation 
ship.  He  stepped  toward  her  firmly. 

"That's  it,"  he  snapped.  "I'm  tired — damnably  tired 
of  your  shiftlessness  and  easy-going  ways.  I've  put  up 
with  them  as  long  as  I'm  going  to.  I'm  tired  of  the 
crowd  that's  here  every  night  after  the  theatre.  I'm  tired 
of  getting  up  in  a  cold  room  and  going  out  to  breakfast. 
I'm  tired  of  the  way  this  place  looks  every  day.  I'm  tired 
of  your  constant  drinking  and  running  about.  I'm  tired 
of  your  lack  of  interest.  I'm  tired  of  the  whole  affair 
the  way  things  are  now " 

"Would  you  rather  I'd  go?"  she  put  in  resignedly, 
rising. 

"Suit  yourself." 

West  turned  and  began  building  a  fire.  Five  minutes 
later  the  girl  was  standing  where  he  had  left  her,  watch 
ing  him  mutely.  Then  slowly  she  began  to  take  down 
her  dresses  from  the  wardrobe,  preparatory  to  packing 
them.  She  was  sobbing  audibly.  Every  few  moments 
she  glanced  surreptitiously  at  West.  But  he  was  paying 
no  attention  to  her.  In  the  midst  of  her  sorting  and 
arranging  she  suddenly  ceased.  She  went  to  the  piano 
and  began  gathering  up  the  soiled  glasses.  She  stooped 
and  picked  up  the  fallen  music  and  arranged  it  neatly  on 
the  rack.  Then  she  took  the  dishes  from  the  table  and 
carried  them  into  the  kitchen.  In  a  moment  he  heard 
her  washing  them. 

"Stan,"  she  called  to  him,  "you'd  make  a  great  Mai- 


1 68  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

donado.  I  believe  if  I'd  gone  you'd  have  broken  the  fur 
niture.  .  .  .  Oh,  Stan,  I  wish  I  could  go  with  you  to 
Iris  to-night.  I  think  the  play  would  console  me."  She 
worked  on  in  silence  for  a  while.  "I  simply  must  get  an 
apron,"  she  said. 

After  that  night  West  had  little  to  complain  of  in  her 
attitude.  He  readily  forgave  her  for  her  past  conduct. 
He  reasoned  that  she  had  probably  been  so  absorbed  in 
her  success,  so  enraptured  by  the  glamour  of  her  new 
importance,  that  all  other  matters  for  the  moment  had 
lost  their  significance  for  her.  He  applied  the  standard 
of  his  own  emotions  to  her,  and  arrived  at  a  state  of 
benign  tolerance  toward  all  her  previous  deficiencies. 
Her  play  closed  a  week  later,  and  she  again  devoted  her 
entire  time  to  his  comfort.  If,  in  the  evenings,  he  ex 
pressed  a  desire  to  be  alone,  she  saw  to  it  that  there  were 
no  visitors.  She  chafed  under  the  loneliness  of  her  ex 
istence,  but  never  reproached  West  for  any  unhappiness 
which  his  inclinations  caused  her. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  her  nature  would  have 
rebelled,  but  her  practical  instinct  dictated  acquiescence. 
At  bottom  she  was  calculating  and  business-like,  shrewd 
and  observant.  Her  unvoiced  religion  was  to  get  on  in 
the  world.  Toward  that  end  she  directed  all  her  energies. 
Few  opportunities  for  her  advancement  had  presented 
themselves  to  her  which  she  had  not  seized.  But  the 
practicality  of  her  character  was  not  conscious  and  rea 
soned.  She  did  not  sacrifice  her  sentiments  to  it.  She 
would  not  deliberately  have  bartered  herself  for  personal 
aggrandizement.  She  was  shallow,  but  not  hardened. 
Her  discriminating  astuteness  was  only  an  instinct,  but  it 
was  a  powerful  instinct,  and  had  been  developed  and 
coloured  by  her  ambitions.  It  governed  her  actions,  and 
influenced  the  direction  her  affections  were  to  take.  This 
fact,  however,  she  never  admitted  to  herself.  She  believed 
her  heart  was  her  guide.  If,  in  the  functioning  of  that 
organ,  advantages  accrued,  she  merely  considered  them 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  169 

incidental.  Her  emotions  were  the  disguise  of  her  am 
bitions.  She  was  clever  and  imaginative,  fond  of  life  and 
the  glitter  and  adventure  of  life.  She  had  the  defects  of 
a  sensitive  feminine  temperament. 

She  believed  that  her  sentiment  for  West  was  natural 
and  spontaneous.  The  true  cords  that  held  her  to  him 
were  invisible  to  her.  It  delighted  her  to  think  that  she 
should  have  made  someone  love  her  who  could  assist  her 
in  obtaining  the  things  she  sought.  Her  love  for  him  was 
not  deep,  but  she  constantly  endeavoured  to  keep  it  alive, 
to  make  it  mean  much  to  her.  She  built  up  about  him 
unknowingly  a  great  edifice  of  pretence,  and  convinced 
herself  that  it  was  real.  Her  instinct  told  her  she  needed 
him,  and  by  a  process  of  constant  self-suggestion  she 
arrived  at  the  point  where  she  believed  that  she  wanted 
him,  aside  from  his  utilitarian  value.  Otherwise  she 
would  not  have  sold  herself,  no  matter  how  beneficial 
such  a  transaction  might  have  proved. 

Spring  came  and  went,  and  their  life  together  assumed 
more  and  more  the  nature  of  an  inexorable  routine.  They 
quarrelled  often  over  petty  matters.  In  one  or  two  un 
usually  violent  scenes  West  had  been  tempted  to  end  the 
affair ;  but  something  held  him  from  taking  the  final  step 
which  would  terminate  all  intercourse  between  them.  It 
was  not  the  heat  of  his  desire  for  the  girl  which  restrained 
him, — that  had  long  since  chilled.  It  was  not  that  he 
feared  facing  the  future  without  her, — she  had  ceased 
to  mean  anything  to  him  in  his  work.  In  fact,  he  rarely 
mentioned  it  to  her,  and  she  never  referred  to  it  except 
in  an  impersonal  and  perfunctory  way.  When  alone  he 
told  himself  it  was  best  that  the  alliance  be  severed.  Yet 
when  the  hour  of  conclusion  came  he  always  let  it  slip 
by  without  taking  action : — a  more  propitious  time  would 
come  later,  he  would  tell  himself. 

Thus  the  end  was  always  postponed.  The  associations 
of  his  present  life  were  more  tenacious  than  he  had 
imagined.  Even  the  recurring  conflicts  between  them  had 


170  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

become  a  habit.  He  now  accepted  them  as  part  of  the 
routine  in  which  he  had  been  caught.  They  were  not 
the  result  of  any  basic  misunderstanding.  They  grew  out 
of  insignificant  causes:  sometimes  they  seemed  to  have 
no  tangible  reason  for  having  developed.  They  could 
not  be  foreseen.  A  word,  sometimes  only  a  glance,  was 
enough  to  evoke  them.  These  ruptures  all  ended  the 
same  way.  The  girl  would  be  reduced  to  tears ;  the  mood 
would  pass;  and  the  current  would  again  flow  smoothly 
on.  They  were  momentary  ruptures  and  did  not  under 
mine  the  relationship  they  invaded.  Rather  did  they 
belong  to  it,  actually  becoming  cementing  factors  of  it. 

In  the  late  summer  the  problem  of  Margaret  Moore's 
engagement  came  up  for  discussion.  West,  then  more 
firmly  established  than  ever  before,  began  to  make  in 
quiries.  He  was  aware  that  he  had  obtained  her  last 
position  for  her  at  a  time  when  she  was  almost  unknown. 
Now,  with  the  added  foundation  of  her  success  to  build 
on,  he  decided  to  strike  high.  It  was  a  matter  of  per 
sonal  pride  with  him — the  pride  of  ownership.  And 
there  was  also  a  desire  on  his  part  to  accomplish  an  act 
of  justice  with  mighty  influences  working  against  him. 
The  abstract  love  of  accomplishing  a  difficult  task  fur 
nished  added  incentive.  He  did  not  fear  a  reprimand 
from  his  paper,  for  he  was  convinced  of  the  righteous 
ness  of  his  efforts  to  secure  for  the  girl  an  important  part 
in  the  coming  season's  productions.  He  was  on  friendly 
terms  with  many  theatrical  managers.  They  respected 
him  and  took  his  criticisms  with  serious  consideration. 
West  knew  that  any  favour  he  might  ask,  provided  it  did 
not  demand  too  great  a  concession  on  their  part,  would  be 
granted.  But  he  would  not  be  satisfied  with  anything 
save  the  highest. 

Anticipating  difficulty,  he  made  preparation  by  solidi 
fying  himself  personally  with  other  influential  critics. 
Two  of  them  had  a  similar  favour  to  ask  of  him :  they, 
too,  were  interested  in  girls  whom  they  desired  to  put 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  171 

forward.  West  promised  his  support.  When  at  last  he 
had  found  a  role  which  satisfied  him  and  pleased  Mar 
garet  Moore,  he  was  in  a  position  to  offer  attractive  in 
ducements  in  return  for  her  contract.  Before  he  had 
consummated  his  plan  he  found  himself  involved  more 
deeply  than  he  had  imagined.  That  he  had  agreed  to 
forgo  his  honesty,  to  release  himself  from  the  high 
standards  he  had  set,  did  not  enter  his  calculations  until 
it  was  too  late  to  retract.  His  enthusiasm  in  his  struggle 
for  power  had  blinded  him.  He  had  been  led  into  an 
impasse  from  which  he  could  not  escape  except  by  being 
false  to  his  inner  convictions. 

But  West  was  not  to  be  called  upon  to  sacrifice  his  hon 
our  in  the  girl's  behalf.  Nor  was  he  to  be  allowed  to 
fulfil  the  rash  promises  he  had  made  his  fellow  critics.  A 
calamity,  whose  presence  he  had  never  considered, 
awaited  him.  The  events  of  his  life  were  following  one 
another  with  serenity;  and  then,  of  a  sudden,  his  existence 
was  turned  up  side  down. 


XVIII 

FOR  nearly  a  week  Margaret  Moore  had  been  unusually 
silent.  She  had  lost  her  buoyancy.  She  obeyed  West 
without  hesitation,  quietly  and  resignedly.  She  did  not 
react  to  his  irritations  but  accepted  them  with  calm  and 
equanimity.  During  the  first  few  days  of  her  saturnine 
tractability  West  regarded  her  condition  as  a  passing 
mood.  She  was  high  strung,  and  he  thought  that  the 
psychological  pendulum  had  temporarily  swung  to  an 
other  extreme.  He  said  little,  working  ardently  during 
the  day,  and  reading  and  writing  during  the  evenings. 
He  began  to  see  the  end  of  his  present  labours.  He 
needed  another  year's  training.  Then  he  would  be  ready 
to  throw  himself  into  the  game  single-handed. 

He  wrote  to  Seminoff:  "Everyone  who  aspires  to 
high  literary  achievement  must  learn  to  write.  There 
are  no  instinctive  writers.  Style  must  be  mastered  like  a 
difficult  trade.  Here  I  am  acquiring  much  knowledge, 
but  I  am  not  ready  yet.  By  this  time  next  year  perhaps 
my  pen  will  not  seem  heavy  or  clumsy."  On  the  very 
night  he  wrote  the  words  Margaret  Moore  expressed  a 
fear  to  him  which  opened  up  a  heretofore  uncharted  re 
gion  of  his  nature,  a  region  of  dread  and  uncertainty, 
filled  with  indistinguishable  spectres  and  fraught  with 
sinister  possibilities.  She  had  withheld  the  information 
from  him  for  a  week,  hoping  it  might  prove  untrue.  But 
there  was  little  doubt  now  that  she  was  pregnant.  She 
accepted  her  condition  sullenly,  and  when  she  apprised 
West  of  the  fact  there  was  a  note  of  accusation  in  her 
voice. 

172 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  173 

His  mind,  sensitive  and  imaginative,  received  the  news 
with  its  full  force  of  disaster.  It  unnerved  him.  It 
crowded  everything  else  from  his  thoughts.  He  lay 
awake  at  night  conscious  of  some  terrifying  catastrophe 
hanging  over  him.  Coupled  with  the  fearful  anxiety 
which  the  girl's  confession  had  brought  him,  was  a  subtle 
and  corroding  fear — a  fear  all  the  more  insidious  be 
cause  he  could  not  understand  it.  His  mind  had  always 
dealt  with  facts  which  could  be  foreseen.  Now  he  was 
in  new  territory.  The  results  he  could  not  guess.  His 
fear  affected  him  like  sorcery.  His  mind  began  to  specu 
late  automatically  on  the  reconstructed  future  which  had 
suddenly  clouded  his  horizon.  His  whole  outlook  under 
went  a  metamorphosis.  No  longer  could  he  stand  true 
to  the  higher  claim  of  his  nature.  The  firmament  of  his 
life  had  become  chaos  and  been  plunged  in  darkness. 
The  indefiniteness  of  his  predicament  seemed  only  to 
accentuate  his  morbid  imaginings.  The  girl  had  sug 
gested  several  times  the  possibility  that  his  present  hor 
rors  might  prove  unfounded.  But  in  this  slim  chance 
of  escape  there  was  no  consolation.  The  cold  hand  of 
tragedy  had  taken  hold  of  him  and  would  not  be  shaken 
off. 

For  a  week  he  struggled  to  keep  himself  sufficiently 
under  control  to  do  his  work.  But  the  exertion  was 
tearing  down  his  strength.  There  were  obvious  signs 
of  deterioration  in  all  he  wrote.  Late  one  afternoon 
when  the  bell  across  the  square  from  his  window  began 
ringing,  a  feeling  like  nausea  swept  over  him.  On  that 
day,  even  during  the  luncheon  period,  he  had  been  apply 
ing  himself  with  tremendous  effort  to  the  tasks  before 
him,  trying  to  overcome  the  fear  that  was  eating  away 
at  the  base  of  his  brain.  The  bell,  as  if  warning  him  of 
the  approaching  night,  broke  down  his  self-control.  Like 
an  automaton  he  finished  the  article  on  which  he  had 
been  labouring.  It  was  as  if  he  had  continued  on  the 
mere  momentum  of  the  day's  earlier  hours,  just  as  a 


174  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Marathon  runner,  unbalanced  by  the  long  strain,  con 
tinues  to  run  after  the  tape  has  been  passed.  The  words 
he  set  down  meant  nothing  to  him :  they  were  not  a  part 
of  his  life. 

Once  in  the  street  the  chill  which  had  come  over  his 
hands  during  the  last  hour  at  the  office,  spread  over  his 
whole  body.  It  was  not  a  cool  night,  but  he  shivered  per 
ceptibly.  The  crowds  began  to  close  in  on  him,  but  he 
did  not  notice  them.  He  saw  a  girl  bend  over  to  recover 
a  package  she  had  dropped.  Something  in  her  gesture 
and  the  shape  of  her  ankles  reminded  him  of  Margaret 
Moore,  and  his  fear  immediately  became  more  conscious. 
What  would  she  have  to  tell  him  when  he  reached  the 
apartment?  Or  rather,  how  would  she  look  at  him?  It 
would  not  be  necessary  for  her  to  speak :  he  would  know 
the  minute  he  saw  her.  He  was  more  nervous  to-night 
than  he  had  been  during  the  past  week.  Each  day  had 
diminished  his  hope.  He  tried  to  argue  with  himself 
that  the  approaching  tragedy  would  prove  a  lie.  It 
came  over  him  that  it  was  too  overwhelming,  too  stu 
pendous  and  far-reaching,  to  be  a  reality.  But  he  found 
no  solace  in  his  enforced  reasoning.  The  distance  to 
where  he  lived  seemed  interminable,  but  the  walk  invig 
orated  him.  He  could  have  gone  miles  without  tiring. 

He  entered  the  room  quietly.  Margaret  Moore  was 
standing  at  the  window.  Hearing  him,  she  turned.  The 
gas  was  low,  but  West  could  see  her  features  distinctly. 
Her  face  was  slightly  pale  and  drawn,  like  that  of  a 
person  who  has  been  without  sleep  for  many  nights.  The 
rouge  on  her  cheeks  and  lips  did  not  belie  her  pallor. 
There  was  a  slight  droop  to  her  shoulders,  an  extra  limp 
ness  to  her  arms.  Her  vitality  was  spent.  He  did  not 
need  to  ask  her:  by  looking  at  her  he  knew  there  had 
been  no  change.  He  kissed  her  tenderly.  There  was  no 
longer  any  passion  between  them. 

"This  is  a  gay  old  world,"  she  commented  drily.  "Re 
hearsals  in  two  weeks — and  this  nursery  business  staring 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  175 

me  in  the  face.    I  feel  the  way  Sarah  Bernhardt  acts  in 
Camitte!" 

West  did  not  resent  her  levity.  It  increased  his  af 
fection  for  her.  He  sat  down  heavily. 

"When  will  dinner  be  ready?"  he  asked.  He  was  not 
hungry.  He  put  the  question  in  order  to  kill  the  intol 
erable  silence  that  followed  her  remark. 

She  began  putting  the  food  on  the  table,  singing 
"Rock-a-bye,  baby,  in  the  tree  top"  with  gloomy  face- 
tiousness.  The  song  brought  back  an  old  memory  to 
West's  mind.  The  night  he  had  met  Irene  Brenner  a 
drunken  student  had  sung  the  song  holding  a  sleeping 
girl  on  his  arms.  That  vision  of  his  earlier  youth  made 
him  shudder.  It  bore  some  cryptic  relation  to  his  pres 
ent  state. 

"Keep  still,"  he  irritably  commanded. 

"I  was  only  rehearsing  my  future  role,"  the  girl  ex 
plained  lightly.  Her  mood  was  obviously  forced.  She 
fell  into  silence.  At  the  end  of  the  meal  West  asked  sud 
denly:  "Isn't  there  anything  to  be  done — some  way 
out?"  He  knew  in  a  vague  way  that  child-birth  was 
preventable.  Of  the  means  and  the  details  he  was  ig 
norant. 

"Of  course  there  is."  Her  tone  was  matter-of-fact. 
"The  thing  is  to  know  where  to  go." 

She  rose  and  passed  into  the  kitchen.  On  her  way 
out  she  touched  West  on  the  shoulder  affectionately. 
It  made  him  tremble  a  little.  Lighting  a  cigarette,  he 
tried  to  formulate  some  plan  of  action.  How  would  he 
get  advice?  What  did  other  people  do  under  such  cir 
cumstances?  He  thought  of  his  few  casual  friends — of 
the  ones  most  likely  to  give  him  counsel.  He  dismissed 
from  his  mind  those  he  knew  in  New  York.  There  was 
Seminoff:  a  letter  would  bring  him.  Then  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  West  that  he  could  not  go  to  anyone  he  knew, 
that  he  must  work  in  the  dark,  and  with  strangers. 

He  had  consulted  a  physician  regarding  a  minor  ail- 


176  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

ment  shortly  after  his  arrival  in  New  York.  His  mind 
at  once  reverted  to  the  occasion.  A  gleam  of  hope  stabbed 
his  darkness.  He  recalled  the  doctor — a  kindly  and 
competent  man,  by  no  means  unapproachable.  He  put  on 
his  hat  and  walked  hurriedly  out.  At  the  pharmacy  to 
which  he  went  the  telephone  was  in  use.  A  girl  in  gaudy 
attire  chatted  easily,  pausing  occasionally  to  laugh  af 
fectedly  at  the  answers  her  remarks  called  forth.  West 
watched  her  impatiently.  What  right  had  she  to  use  the 
telephone  for  unserious  matters  when  he  was  in  such 
dire  need  of  it?  The  clerk  asked  him  politely  if  he  was 
being  waited  on,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  man — 
this  dealer  in  mysterious  drugs — could  inform  him  of 
what  he  wished  above  all  things  to  know.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  asking  when  shame  overcame  him.  He  merely 
shook  his  head.  The  girl  had  turned  from  the  telephone. 
West  recognized  her  trade.  His  instinct  was  to  follow 
her — she  surely  could  enlighten  him.  Again  he  checked 
himself;  the  thing  was  too  sordid. 

He  found  the  doctor's  number.  A  woman  answered 
him.  He  learned  that  the  man  who,  for  the  moment,  he 
regarded  as  his  one  possible  avenue  of  escape,  was  ab 
sent  from  the  city  and  would  be  away  for  a  week.  He 
returned  to  the  apartment.  Opening  the  door,  he  heard 
the  clatter  of  dishes  in  the  kitchen.  All  of  his  domestic 
details  suddenly  appeared  insignificant  in  the  presence  of 
this  new  matter.  He  wondered  why  Margaret  Moore 
should  busy  herself  with  clearing  away  the  dinner  dishes 
until  this  overtowering  affair  should  be  settled.  He  re 
called,  with  a  sense  of  remorse,  that  he  had  once  driven 
her  threateningly  to  do  the  things  she  was  now  doing. 
He  experienced  for  her  a  feeling  of  great  sorrow,  of  all- 
pervading  tenderness.  Later  he  told  her  where  he  had 
been,  explaining  that  they  must  wait  a  week.  Nothing 
more  was  said.  West  realized  that  he  was  physically 
exhausted.  The  strain  of  the  preceding  days  had  un- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  177 

manned  him.  His  eyes  were  heavy;  his  shoulders 
weighted  down.  He  went  to  his  room. 

But  sleep  did  not  come  immediately.  His  mind  be 
gan  to  speculate.  In  New  York  there  were  hundreds  of 
men  in  his  position.  His  predicament  was  probably  not 
unusual.  He  thought  of  the  people  he  knew,  and  tried 
to  recall  the  number  of  children  they  had.  Harrison 
Dwight  had  been  married  a  great  many  years  and  had 
no  children.  Alice  Carlisle  was  an  only  daughter.  He 
himself  was  an  only  son.  His  thoughts  led  him  nowhere. 
They  merely  impressed  on  him  the  irrationality  of  life. 
No  logic  could  dispel  the  patent  fact  of  his  tragedy.  He 
then  tried  to  prefigure  the  threatening  future.  He  might 
marry  Margaret  Moore  and  evade  the  disgrace  of  illegiti 
mate  fatherhood.  The  moment  he  thus  projected  his  life 
with  her  into  the  coming  years  the  scales  of  illusion  fell 
from  his  eyes.  He  did  not  love  her.  A  prolonged  inti 
mate  existence  with  her  would  be  insupportable.  Dis 
grace  was  preferable.  And  what  of  his  work,  his  hopes 
for  greatness,  the  blinding  visions  of  a  conquering  suc 
cess?  The  brilliant  and  fantastic  structure  of  his  dreams 
toppled  about  him.  He  could  not  shake  the  responsibili 
ties  which  obscured,  like  great  threatening  storm  clouds, 
the  dazzling  skies  of  his  future.  They  would  hold  him 
a  slave  to  the  drudgery  of  enforced  labour.  A  shallow, 
restless  sleep  smeared  out  his  calamitous  conjectures. 

He  was  no  longer  fit  for  work.  His  tasks  at  the  office 
accumulated :  he  could  not  keep  abreast  of  them.  At  the 
theatre  he  was  unable  to  hold  his  mind  to  an  analysis  of 
the  plays.  When  he  attempted  to  criticize  them,  he  found 
difficulty  in  recording  his  impressions :  they  were  con 
fused,  and  coloured  by  his  fears.  .His  judgments  were 
unsound.  There  was  a  base  alloy  in  the  metal  of  his 
mind.  He  strove  to  protect  himself  by  writing  noncom- 
mittally.  A  weakness  and  insecurity  crept  into  his  criti 
cisms.  They  lacked  vigour  and  initiative.  Even  their 
serenity  was  clouded.  His  decadence  was  palpable. 


178  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Harrison  D wight  wrote  him  a  long  letter  of  complaint. 
Dwight  always  avoided  personal  intercourse  with  his  sub 
editors.  For  this  West  was  thankful.  He  exerted  him 
self  more  than  ever,  but  the  only  result  was  that  each 
night  he  suffered  a  greater  fatigue.  His  work  did  not 
improve.  He  began  to  fear  for  his  position,  and  there 
was  added  another  worry  to  his  mental  burden.  The 
problem  of  livelihood  confronted  him  as  a  possibility. 
He  still  had  a  few  hundred  dollars  saved,  but  that  would 
go  quickly  should  he  be  released  from  the  Argonaut. 

The  day  came  when  the  physician  on  whose  help  he 
vaguely  counted  returned  to  the  city.  West  went  to  him. 
He  hesitated  before  the  doctor's  residence,  framing  sen 
tences  with  which  to  explain  his  situation.  He  had  a 
presentiment  that  unless  he  said  just  the  right  thing  he 
would  be  unsuccessful.  He  was  handicapped  too  by  a 
sense  of  shame.  A  woman  in  black  entered  the  house  and 
he  followed  her.  There  were  several  people  waiting  in 
the  reception  room.  He  speculated  individually  on  their 
reasons  for  being  there.  Then  he  began  to  make  a  care 
ful  study  of  the  objects  in  the  room.  He  remembered 
them  all  from  his  previous  visit.  He  approached  the 
framed  diploma  and  tried  to  decipher  the  signatures. 
After  a  while  he  went  to  the  centre-table  and  tried  to  read 
an  old  magazine.  But  he  was  too  nervous,  and  merely 
looked  at  the  pictures.  His  turn  came.  The  doctor  ap 
peared  at  the  door  and  nodded  to  him.  His  heart  began 
to  beat  rapidly;  his  lips  became  dry. 

Once  in  the  office  with  the  door  closed,  the  doctor  put 
his  hand  on  West's  shoulder  in  a  friendly  way. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  boy?"  he  asked,  motioning 
to  a  chair. 

"I  came  to  you  before — some  months  ago,"  began 
West.  "Perhaps  you  remember  me/' 

The  doctor  nodded. 

Then  West  explained  the  cause  of  his  visit.  After 
the  first  few  sentences  he  had  himself  well  under  control. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  179 

He  spoke  firmly  and  fluently.  But  before  he  had  fin 
ished  the  older  man  interrupted. 

"Look  here,  my  boy/'  he  said  gravely,  "don't  go  on. 
There's  nothing  to  be  done.  You'd  better  go  home  and 
think  it  over  from  another  angle." 

"Nothing  to  be  done !"  West  felt  the  fear  that  had 
hounded  him  for  two  weeks  suddenly  strengthen. 

"It's  dangerous  business.  .  .  .  Put  the  idea  out  of 
your  head."  The  man's  tone  was  final. 

West  arose  unsteadily.  "I  thought — you  might  know 
of  something  to  do." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "Don't  consider  it,  sir,"  he 
advised  coldly. 

West  hesitated : — this  was  his  only  chance. 

"You  mean  you  won't — help  me?" 

"No,  sir,"  the  doctor  replied  emphatically. 

Still  West  remained.  "Couldn't  you  send  me  to  some 
one? — Isn't  there  anyone  you  could  recommend?" 

"I  don't  know  of  anyone."  The  doctor  walked  to  the 
door. 

As  West  passed  out  he  paused  and  asked  in  a  last  des 
perate  attempt  to  find  a  solution :  "Where  could  I  go  for 
advice  ?" 

Again  the  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know  that  either.  Men  who  do  that  sort  of 
thing  keep  pretty  well  under  cover.  It's  criminal,  you 
know." 

Desperate,  West  visited  several  other  doctors.  He 
looked  for  their  signs  along  the  street  as  he  returned  to 
his  office.  In  each  case  the  result  was  the  same  as  in  his 
first  interview.  Not  one  so  much  as  held  out  hope  to  him. 
Twice  he  was  rebuffed  with  discourtesy.  By  noon  a  feel 
ing  of  utter  helplessness  overcame  him.  His  mind  gave 
way  to  the  inevitability  of  the  situation.  The  tide  which 
had  been  steadily  rising  about  him  had  at  last  inundated 
him.  He  resigned  himself.  His  spirit  was  broken.  The 
future  was  entirely  blotted  out. 


i8o  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

That  night  he  did  not  return  immediately  to  the  apart 
ment.  He  felt  the  need  of  distraction,  of  many  voices, 
of  noise,  and  colour  and  confusion.  He  entered  a  brilliant 
and  crowded  cafe  and  ordered  whiskey.  He  thought  the 
stimulation  it  would  give  him  might  help  efface  his  de 
pression.  He  regarded  the  men  round  him  with  in 
quisitive  animosity.  Their  loud  joviality  accentuated 
his  depression  and  filled  him  with  the  agony  of  personal 
injustice.  Why  had  they  all  escaped  the  tragedy  which 
had  befallen  him?  Why  should  he  alone  of  all  these  ban 
tering  men  have  been  victimized  by  circumstances?  He 
hated  and  envied  them.  He  felt  like  striking  them,  like 
tearing  the  laughter  from  their  mouths.  A  panic  of  fear 
and  apprehension  rose  in  his  mind,  and  he  motioned  the 
waiter  to  bring  him  more  whiskey. 

An  hour  later  he  went  out  again  into  the  street.  His 
brain  was  reeling.  The  lights  about  him  danced  fan 
tastically.  The  people  passing  him  were  blurred  masses 
of  black.  His  body  seemed  to  have  lost  its  solidity,  and 
when  he  touched  his  face  with  his  hands  his  flesh  was 
without  its  usual  tactility.  A  gay  recklessness  had  driven 
the  poison  from  his  mind.  His  perceptions  had  become 
blunt.  He  thought  of  his  impending  doom  and  caught 
himself  in  the  midst  of  uncontrolled  laughter.  He  was 
conscious  that  several  of  the  indistinct  phantoms  had 
paused  and  were  eyeing  him  with  amusement.  He  ex 
perienced  a  sudden  friendliness  for  them,  and  waved  his 
arms  to  them  good-naturedly.  They  did  not  respond  to 
his  greeting  and,  angered  by  their  detachment,  he  passed 
on,  steadying  himself  along  the  sides  of  the  buildings. 
The  night  air  braced  him  up  a  little;  the  realities  came 
flooding  back.  He  went  into  another  cafe  and  began 
drinking  again.  The  more  he  drank  the  less  was  he  tor 
tured  by  his  fate.  Life,  for  the  moment,  became  in 
consequential,  even  frivolous. 

Before  he  reached  his  rooms  it  was  past  midnight. 
Later  he  remembered  vaguely  that  some  man  had  taken 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  181 

his  arm  and  asked  him  where  he  lived,  and  that  the  man 
had  guided  him  up  the  stone  steps  that  led  to  his  front 
door.  He  had  difficulty  in  ascending  the  stairs  inside, 
and  a  dozen  times  he  sat  down  to  rest  and  to  laugh  at  the 
absurdity  of  his  struggles  to  reach  his  door.  As  he  en 
tered  the  apartment  his  vision  was  so  confused  that  he 
could  not  distinguish  any  of  the  objects  of  the  room. 
The  floor  swept  suddenly  from  under  him.  There  ap 
peared  to  be  a  silent  explosion  of  blurred  lights  and  fur 
niture.  He  felt  himself  pitching  forward  and  was  con 
scious  of  a  crash  and  a  sharp  pain  in  his  shoulder.  Mar 
garet  Moore  leaned  over  him  and  took  his  head  in  her 
arms. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Stan?"  he  heard  her  ask  softly. 

He  tried  to  rise,  and  her  arms  were  about  him  help 
ing  him.  He  looked  up  at  her.  She  was  smiling. 

"How  did  you  ever  manage  to  carry  it  home?"  she 
asked.  "You  astonish  me,  Stan.  And  there  was  a  time 
when  you  scolded  me  for  drinking!  You  might  at 
least' ve  taken  me  along.  .  .  .  You  always  were  a  selfish 
beast."  Her  reprimand  was  amiable. 

She  almost  carried  him  to  his  bed,  and  removed  his 
shoes  and  collar.  By  this  time  he  had  fallen  into  a  heavy, 
stertorous  sleep.  She  turned  out  the  lights. 

A  month  slowly  drew  itself  out.  West  had  begun  to 
drink  more  and  more,  oblivious  to  all  personal  conse 
quences.  His  thoughts  had  become  a  kind  of  desperate 
chaos.  His  sense  of  proportion  vanished.  He  lived  each 
day  like  a  man  to  whom  to-morrow  is  non-existent.  He 
no  longer  planned.  His  last  drop  of  sentiment  for  Mar 
garet  Moore  had  dried  up.  She  had  become  for  him  a 
charge  from  whose  presence  there  was  no  escape — a  pun 
ishment  imposed  on  him  by  cruel  and  ever-watchful  gods. 
An  inflexible  and  steadfast  instinct  of  loyalty  held  him 
to  her.  He  pitied  her  profoundly,  and  yet  he  resented 
hotly  the  ruin  she  had  brought  on  him. 

Their  relationship  had  undergone  a  serious  change.    A 


1 82  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

masked  hate  had  entered  it.  She  taunted  him  with  his  in 
ability  to  extricate  her  from  her  predicament,  intimating 
that  he  had  been  false  to  some  trust  she  had  put  in  him. 
He  was  too  dispirited  to  defend  himself  against  her  ac 
cusations.  He  merely  became  morose  and  not  infre 
quently  went  from  her,  returning  late  when  he  knew  she 
would  have  retired.  He  thought  it  incomprehensible 
that  she  should  have  begun  her  rehearsals,  but  he  said 
nothing  to  her  about  it.  He  ascribed  the  fact  to  her 
loneliness  during  the  day.  She  took  immaculate  care  of 
the  apartment.  She  arose  every  morning  and  prepared 
his  breakfast.  Dinner  was  ready  for  him  each  night 
when  he  returned  from  his  work.  The  silences  between 
them  grew.  Only  one  subject  was  ever  uppermost  in 
their  minds,  and  they  chose  not  to  speak  of  it.  To  ap 
pear  interested  in  other  things  was  too  obviously  a  pre 
tence. 

At  the  end  of  the  month  Margaret  Moore  returned 
from  rehearsal  in  an  unusually  serious  mood.  She  was 
late,  and  West  was  already  at  the  apartment. 

"I've  found  someone  to  go  to,"  she  informed  him. 
"One  of  the  girls  at  the  theatre  sent  me  to  her  doctor.  I 
went  to  see  him.  .  .  .  Only,"  she  added,  "it  will  take  a 
lot  of  money." 

For  some  reason  West  was  not  elated  at  the  news. 
He  experienced  a  feeling  of  fright  as  if  he  had  been  un 
expectedly  confronted  by  a  strange  and  mysterious  mon 
ster.  His  mind  had  become  adjusted  to  his  fate.  He 
knew  what  to  expect.  But  this  other  course  which  the 
girl's  words  had  opened,  inspired  in  him  a  new  and  dif 
ferent  kind  of  fear. 

Margaret  Moore's  confidence,  however,  quieted  his 
doubts.  By  the  following  day  he  was  in  a  frame  of  mind 
where  anxiety  supplanted  his  alarm  of  the  previous  night. 
All  work  was  now  impossible  until  the  matter  should  be 
finally  settled,  and  he  did  not  even  go  to  the  office.  He 
was  too  nervous  to  read,  and  walked  the  streets  for  hours 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  183 

trying  to  project  his  mind  into  the  future.  There  were 
minutes  when  he  felt  light-hearted,  when  his  old  hopes 
and  ambitions  loomed  up  again  and  set  his  heart  beating 
fast.  But  these  waves  of  pleasure  were  followed  by  oth 
ers  of  dread  and  panic.  He  would  come  abruptly  to  a 
halt,  aghast  at  the  terrifying  mystery  of  what  was  to  take 
place.  He  could  not  put  his  finger  on  the  cause  of  his 
alarm,  but  the  words  of  the  first  doctor  he  had  con 
sulted  came  back  to  him  with  grim  insistence — "Ifs 
criminal/'  Would  he  in  any  way  be  involved  in  its  crimi 
nality?  He  was  startled  by  a  sense  of  his  own  guilt,  and 
a  fear  of  personal  consequence  overpowered  all  his  other 
apprehensions.  It  occurred  to  him  he  should  seek  the 
advice  of  someone  who  knew,  and  he  began  to  scan  the 
windows  of  office  buildings  for  lawyers'  signs. 

West  entered  the  first  office  he  found.  He  had  a  long 
wait,  but  the  sound  of  the  lawyer's  voice  behind  the  glass 
door,  talking  in  a  flat  confidential  voice  to  another  client, 
gave  him  a  feeling  of  security.  At  the  end  of  half  an 
hour  he  was  led  into  the  presence  of  a  tall  wiry  man 
whose  hair  was  unkempt  and  whose  clothes  were  very 
loose  and  wrinkled.  At  the  end  of  West's  recital,  the 
lawyer  leaned  back  and  folded  his  hands  meditatively. 

"You  understand,  sir,"  he  began,  "that  what  you  pro 
pose  doing  is  against  the  law.  Now,  since  the  girl  is  of 
age  she  can  bring  no  criminal  action  against  you.  How 
ever,  you  will  be  responsible  for  the  support  of  the  child, 
provided,  of  course,  she  can  prove  that  you  are  its  father 
and  files  notice  to  that  effect  within  a  given  time,  pre 
senting  a  certificate  from  a  reputable  physician  testify 
ing  to  her  physical  condition.  I  might  say  that  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  disprove  responsibility  for  a  child  unless  you  could 
show  you  were  absent  from  her  during  the  entire  period 
of  possible  inception.  That,  as  I  understand,  you  are  not 
in  a  position  to  do.  In  any  event  she  cannot  force  you  to 
marry  her." 

The  lawyer  paused  and  regarded  West  critically. 


1 84  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"What  is  your  occupation,  sir  ?"  he  asked. 

West  told  him  of  his  work  and  named  the  paper  with 
which  he  was  connected. 

The  lawyer  nodded  approvingly. 

"Well,  now,  Mr.  West,"  he  went  on,  "here  is  a  sug 
gestion  which  I  put  forward  as  an  alternative  to  your  own 
plan  regarding  the  situation,  which,  as  you  know,  is  ille 
gal  and  therefore  inadvisable, — it  is  this :  now  it  is  pos 
sible  for  the  prospective  father  of  a  child  to  pay  over  to 
the  woman  involved,  provided  she  is  agreeable,  a  certain 
sum  of  money — 'the  amount  to  be  decided  on  between  you 
and  her — in  exchange  for  which  she  gives  you  a  release 
from  all  demands,  that  is,  lets  you  out  of  all  responsibility 
for  the  maintenance  of  the  child." 

"That  isn't  the  point,"  West  replied.  "Neither  of  us 
wants  the  child." 

The  lawyer  smiled  slyly. 

"She  can  do  whatever  she  chooses  with  the  money  once 
she  had  it,  can't  she?  That  is  her  affair,  not  yours,  so 
long  as  you  have  done  your  duty  toward  her  and  hold 
her  release." 

West  began  to  understand. 

"You  mean,"  he  asked,  "that  I  pay  her  ostensibly  for 
the  child's  support  and  get  her  receipt  to  that  effect,  and 
that  she  may  then  go  ahead  and  prevent  it  without  involv 
ing  me?" 

"Precisely."  The  lawyer  leaned  forward  and  drew  a 
printed  form  from  a  drawer  of  his  desk.  "You  must  re 
main  ignorant  of  any  criminal  intent  on  her  part.  It 
is  your  only  safe  course  in  such  matters." 

West  hesitated  but  a  moment.  His  scruples  had  long 
since  been  overridden  by  his  ambitions.  It  was  no  time 
now  for  moral  considerations.  He  experienced  no  sense 
of  wrong  in  the  act  to  which  he  was  about  to  be  an  acces 
sary.  His  whole  instinct  was  to  throw  off  the  burden 
of  the  past  weeks.  He  grasped  at  this  one  means  of  es 
cape  like  a  dying  man  who  loves  life  above  everything. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  185 

His  instinct  of  self-preservation  made  all  else  appear  ir 
relevant  and  inconsiderable. 

"Will  you  arrange  matters — legally?"  he  asked,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  a  month  his  voice  had  a  ring  of  en 
thusiasm. 

"Bring  the  young  lady  here  to-morrow  morning,"  the 
lawyer  answered,  rising.  "My  fee  will  be  fifteen  dollars." 

Margaret  Moore  received  West's  information  concern 
ing  the  release  with  undisguised  anger. 

"Why  should  I  protect  you  ?"  she  asked  with  sarcasm. 
"Are  you  too  much  of  a  coward  to  take  the  same  chances 
I  am — you  who  are  to  blame  for  it  all?" 

It  seemed  to  West  as  he  stood  looking  at  her  that  she 
had  never  loved  him.  And  he  asked  himself  incredu 
lously  if  he  himself  had  ever  loved  this  painted  girl  who 
was  sneering  at  him.  He  longed  to  be  rid  of  her,  to  blot 
from  his  mind  every  vestige  of  her  memory. 

"What  have  you  done  to  deserve  all  the  best  of  it?" 
There  was  the  scorn  of  hate  in  her  voice.  "You  weren't 
even  man  enough  to  protect  me." 

"I  was  ready  to  stand  by  you,  whatever  happened." 
The  tension  under  which  he  had  been  living  had  snapped. 
He  was  calm  almost  to  the  point  of  lethargy.  "I  was 
ready  to  sacrifice  everything  for  you." 

"What  could  you  do  for  me?"  she  asked  bitterly. 
"You  helped  me  get  an  engagement — that  was  all  you 
were  good  for.  What  an  idiot  I  was  to  have  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  you !" 

West  was  too  relaxed  for  anger.  It  mattered  little 
what  she  said  to  him.  He  was  too  indifferent  even  to 
resent  her  words.  He  smiled  wearily  at  her  rage.  There 
was  something  inordinately  ludicrous  in  the  vehemence  of 
her  temper. 

"If  I  sign  that  release  to-morrow,"  she  continued  an 
grily,  "you'll  have  to  give  me  every  penny  you  have  in 
the  world." 

Even  this  threat  did  not  move  West.    He  would  gladly 


1 86  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

have  given  her  ten  times  the  amount  had  he  owned  it. 
Nor  did  he  begrudge  it  to  her.  Despite  his  indifference  he 
still  felt  that  he  was  under  some  sacred  obligation  to  her. 
This  feeling  involved  his  honour :  it  belonged  to  that  part 
of  him  which  he  thought  had  been  killed  but  which  had 
unexpectedly  come  back  to  life  that  day. 

The  next  morning  Margaret  Moore  packed  all  her 
clothes  and  had  them  moved  to  a  hotel.  Neither  she  nor 
West  spoke  to  the  other.  On  their  way  to  the  lawyer's 
office  West  stopped  at  his  bank  and  drew  out  what  money 
he  had. 

The  legal  transaction  occupied  but  a  few  minutes. 
The  girl  openly  showed  her  resentment;  but  when  they 
were  once  more  in  the  street  her  manner  softened.  She 
smiled  almost  tenderly  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Stan,"  she  said,  as  if  reluctant  to  sever 
their  long  connection. 

"Good-bye/5  West  repeated,  taking  her  hand  and  hold 
ing  it  close.  For  a  second  a  ghost  of  his  old  emotion  for 
her  haunted  him.  He  watched  her  as  she  hailed  a  coupe 
and  drove  away. 

He  was  never  to  see  her  again. 


XIX 

WEST  imagined  his  mind  would  be  free  of  anxiety 
once  he  had  secured  her  release  and  had  been  finally 
separated  from  her.  But  as  he  stood  looking  after  her 
he  knew  he  would  have  no  peace  until  he  had  learned  the 
outcome  of  the  action  she  had  decided  to  take.  He  did 
not  fear  for  himself.  His  feeling  was  a  subtler  and  more 
deeply-rooted  anxiety  than  that  of  mere  personal  safety. 
He  knew  that  psychologically  the  affair  had  not  been  ter 
minated.  A  sense  of  moral  responsibility  still  clung  to 
him.  The  bands  of  loyalty  had  not  yet  been  broken, 
and  he  realized  that  should  Margaret  Moore  return  to 
him  in  distress  and  seek  his  aid  he  would  exert  in  her 
behalf  the  full  force  of  his  protection.  He  had  sought 
to  disentangle  himself  from  the  mesh  of  his  emotions; 
but  he  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  only  the  semblance  of 
liberation.  He  endeavoured  to  disavow  all  obligations, 
to  convince  himself  of  the  unreasonableness  of  any  fu 
ture  claim  she  might  make  against  him.  But  his  efforts 
ended  in  confusion.  His  apprehension  held  him  tena 
ciously.  His  mind  demanded  absolute  knowledge  of  her 
safety,  and  no  amount  of  logic  could  satisfy  that  demand. 
His  instinct  dictated  that  he  follow  her  and  ascertain  the 
details  of  her  plan,  but  pride  halted  him.  By  keeping  in 
touch  with  the  theatre  where  she  was  rehearsing  he  could 
probably  learn  the  news  for  which  his  mind  was  rest 
lessly  avid. 

He  called  there  the  next  day  and  made  inquiry.  He 
learned  that  she  had  pleaded  illness  and  had  requested 
two  days'  absence.  Face  to  face  with  the  reality  of  the 
situation,  his  anxiety  increased.  Solitude  became  in- 

187 


1 88  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

superable,  and  he  returned  to  the  office,  hoping  to  relieve 
his  nervousness  by  concentrated  application  to  his  work. 

A  not  entirely  unexpected  blow  awaited  him.  His 
writings  for  over  a  month  had  been  steadily  retrograd 
ing.  Two  issues  of  the  Argonaut  had  gone  to  press  with 
out  his  usual  contributions,  and  his  last  article  to  ap 
pear  had  been  copiously  excised.  His  failure  had  meant 
little  to  him  at  the  time.  It  had  appeared  paltry  beside 
his  greater  worry.  Unheedful  and  disinterested,  he  had 
let  his  duties  slip  by  one  by  one.  When  he  returned  to 
the  office  it  was  with  the  resolution  to  reinstate  himself, 
to  wrest  again  from  the  elements  of  his  life  the  power 
that  had  passed  from  him.  But  on  his  desk  he  found  a 
summons  from  Dwight,  and  he  knew  that  the  chance 
for  rehabilitation  had  gone  by.  West  went  to  him  and 
was  received  brusquely. 

"It's  no  use  going  on,"  said  Dwight.  "I  gave  you 
warning  weeks  ago.  You  chose  to  ignore  it.  I've  writ 
ten  your  father  that  my  patience  has  gone.  I've  kept 
you  here  longer  than  I  would  any  other  man  I  know — 
on  his  account.  You  had  the  stuff  in  you.  You've 
thrown  away  your  birthright.  And  for  what? — A 
woman  who  doesn't  care  a  damn  about  you  except  for 
what  she  can  get  out  of  you.  When  you  began  to  go 
to  pieces  I  looked  around  for  the  cause.  I  didn't  have 
to  go  far.  You  used  your  paper — your  professional  hon 
our — to  give  her  a  lift.  I  made  allowances.  You  were 
young;  and  I  thought  she'd  drop  you  when  it  was  over 
and  that  you'd  wake  up.  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  I 
overestimated  you.  You  probably  think  you  love  her. 
That's  why  you  can't  remain  with  us.  It'll  take  you  too 
long  a  time  to  get  over  it.  In  the  meantime  you  won't 
be  any  good  to  anybody.  I'm  talking  frankly  to  you,  for 
some  day  you  may  break  away  and  make  something  of 
yourself.  Few  men  do,  however,  once  they're  caught. 
It's  something  of  a  personal  blow  to  me — your  father  and 
I  were  very  close  once.  But  I  can't  sacrifice  the  paper  to 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  189 

your  weakness.  I've  looked  at  the  matter  from  every 
side.  You've  got  to  work  out  your  own  salvation.  You 
don't  even  look  the  same  as  you  did  when  you  first  came 
to  New  York.  Your  eyes  are  dull.  Your  mouth  is  down 
at  the  corners.  Your  gait  has  changed.  You  don't  carry 
yourself  the  way  you  did.  You're  headed  the  wrong 
way,  and  you're  going  fast.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  go 
back  home,  and  to  do  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  thinking." 

As  Dwight  was  talking  West's  pride  flared  up.  No 
man  had  ever  spoken  to  him  like  this.  His  dignity  was 
aroused,  and  he  became  angry.  He  started  to  rise  and 
defend  himself.  He  was  no  longer  a  boy  to  be  scolded 
and  chastised  by  strangers.  His  life  and  his  actions  were 
his  own.  He  had  the  right  to  live  as  he  chose.  His 
conduct  was  under  no  one's  jurisdiction.  Dwight's  words 
were  an  insult  to  his  self-esteem.  Then  the  truth  of  what 
the  other  man  had  said  was  borne  in  upon  him.  Why 
should  he  fight  for  a  self-respect  which  had  been  lost? 
And  the  affair  was  not  over.  Something  might  happen. 
There  yet  remained  the  possibility  of  tragedy.  His  mind 
was  devitalized :  it  still  laboured  under  the  strain  of  un 
certainty.  Courage !  That  was  what  he  needed :  but  his 
energy  had  gone.  His  momentary  revolt  against 
Dwight's  words  did  not  reach  articulation.  He  went 
out  with  an  air  of  defeat. 

It  was  not  until  two  days  later  that  West  fully  real 
ized  the  disgrace  and  defeat  to  which  the  influences  of 
his  life  had  brought  him.  At  the  time  of  his  dismissal 
from  the  Argonaut  his  mind  was  still  tortured  by  anxiety 
for  Margaret  Moore.  This  anxiety  had  acted  as  a  kind 
of  armour  through  which  Dwight's  words  had  but  incom 
pletely  penetrated.  He  was  too  preoccupied  with  sinister 
speculations  as  to  the  result  of  the  girl's  criminal  action 
to  comprehend  the  true  meaning  of  the  disastrous  culmi 
nation  of  his  literary  work.  Not  until  he  had  learned 
that  Margaret  Moore  was  again  rehearsing,  safely 
through  the  mysterious  dangers  that  had  threatened  her, 


1 90  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

did  West  gaze  with  an  accurate  vision  upon  the  tragic 
outcome  of  his  first  battle  with  the  great  forces  of  life. 
It  is  not  uncommon  for  a  soldier  to  be  mortally  wounded 
and  not  know  for  some  time  that  a  bullet  has  penetrated 
some  vital  organ  of  his  body.  He  may  even  fight  on,  ob 
livious  to  the  fact  that  he  already  has  been  claimed  by 
death.  Then  suddenly  comes  the  nausea,  the  stifling 
pain:  the  fog  drifts  into  his  mind,  and  he  knows  the 
truth. 

It  was  thus  with  West.  Returning  to  his  rooms  after 
learning  of  Margaret  Moore's  safety,  he  fell  into  a  chair 
as  if  he  had  suddenly  been  dealt  a  powerful  blow.  The 
strain  of  the  preceding  weeks  had  told  on  him  physically. 
He  had  slept  little.  He  had  been  living  on  his  reserve 
fund  of  nervous  vitality.  His  mind  had  been  racked  and 
shaken  by  the  horrors  of  fear  and  the  terrifying  prospects 
of  ruin.  His  eyes  had  become  dull  and  ringed  with 
shadows.  His  face  was  haggard.  His  hands  had  lost 
their  repose  and  twitched  when  he  worked.  His  mind 
too  was  less  elastic:  its  brilliant  courage  had  given  way 
to  a  state  of  resignation  and  unconcern.  His  ambition 
had  dwindled:  the  virile  force  that  had  always  driven 
him  into  the  unknown  regions  of  intellectual  conflict  had 
for  the  time  being  ceased  to  exert  itself.  His  old  spirit 
of  heresy  and  adventure  had  departed.  He  felt  tired 
in  both  mind  and  body,  as  though  suffocated  by  the  sweet 
fumes  of  an  ineffable  lethargy.  Life  was  too  bitter  and 
futile  a  struggle :  its  rewards  were  too  meagre  for  the 
effort  demanded.  And  moreover  life  seemed  a  treacher 
ous  task-master,  ever  watching  for  a  chance  to  indulge 
itself  in  a  bit  of  grim  humour. 

As  West  sat  staring  into  the  gloom  of  approaching 
night,  contemplating  the  carnage  of  his  murdered  hopes, 
his  first  great  disillusion  settled  upon  him.  It  was  not 
the  disillusion  he  had  felt  toward  the  many  isolated  fac 
tors  of  life,  but  that  disillusion  which  is  inherent  in  life 
itself.  The  universe  of  reality  became  a  monster  vi- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  191 

ciously  tyrannical,  cruel,  bitter  and  omnipotent — a  mon 
ster  against  whose  machinations  no  human  effort  could 
prove  of  avail.  West  reviewed  the  situation  coldly.  He 
was  penniless.  He  was  disgraced.  He  was  bespattered 
with  the  mire  of  his  own  weakness.  No  other  magazine 
would  have  him,  even  should  there  be  an  opening.  His 
influence  was  gone.  In  the  theatrical  world  he  had 
ceased  to  exist:  he  could  look  for  nothing  there.  The 
acquaintances  he  had  formed  in  New  York  were  shallow 
and  insincere :  there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could  go  for 
assistance.  He  might  in  time  find  his  way  into  the  maga 
zines  by  special  work,  but  for  that  he  needed  capital. 
He  must  have  money  with  which  to  live  during  the  te 
dious  process  of  establishing  himself.  He  was  beaten, 
subdued,  even  exiled.  He  had  set  out  to  conquer  the 
world,  to  blaze  a  new  and  dazzling  trail  athwart  the  years 
of  his  maturity.  But  he  had  been  broken  and  cast  aside 
by  this  very  world  he  had  sought  to  subdue. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  himself  as  to  the  cause 
of  his  recent  failure.  As  he  thought  of  Margaret  Moore 
he  suffered  a  pang  of  intense  shame.  His  mind  went 
back  to  his  disgrace  at  the  University  and  to  the  cause 
of  that  catastrophe.  As  he  compared  the  two  women 
who  had  despoiled  his  dreams,  they  suddenly  appeared  as 
one  and  the  same,  like  an  enemy  who  had  plotted  against 
him,  disappeared  and  then  returned  later,  disguised,  to 
carry  out  another  stroke  of  vengeance.  A  quick  and  hot 
hatred  of  them  leaped  up  in  him.  He  felt  that  they  had 
tricked  and  plundered  him.  A  burning  fury  for  all 
women  seized  him.  He  became  viciously  sullen.  Then 
his  passion  changed  to  one  of  self-pity.  An  overwhelm 
ing  sense  of  the  world's  wrong  flooded  him.  His  eyes 
burned  with  tears.  He  experienced  a  great  and  com 
manding  desire  for  peace.  Above  all  else  he  wanted 
rest — a  haven  free  from  the  strife  and  friction  of  life's 
activities.  He  needed  comfort  and  sympathy.  He 
longed  for  the  quiet  and  security  of  his  boyhood.  His 


1 92  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

spirit  was  crowded  with  antipathy  for  the  sordid  and 
hectic  turmoil  of  his  recent  existence.  A  new  and  dev 
astating  loneliness  settled  upon  him — a  solitude  of  heart 
as  well  as  of  mind.  All  the  values  he  had  attached  to 
people  and  things  appeared  distorted  and  contemptible. 
His  former  deeds  and  attitudes  disgusted  him.  The  reac 
tion  had  come  suddenly,  and  it  left  him  with  a  sense  of 
utter  fatigue. 

D wight's  advice  that  he  return  to  Greenwood  recurred 
to  him  with  fascinating  persistency.  He  began  recalling 
incidents  of  his  early  life  at  home.  He  visualized  the 
green  hills,  the  trees  along  the  river,  the  white  bridge  in 
the  midday  sun,  the  large,  silent  rooms  of  his  father's 
house.  These  scenes  of  his  youth  were  saturated  with 
that  quietude  and  peace  for  which  his  soul  craved.  He 
thought  of  Alice  Carlisle,  and  she  seemed  to  be  inter 
woven  with  all  his  early  dreams.  Her  presence  rose 
before  him  and  there  was  a  warmth  immediately  in  his 
heart.  A  subtle  sweetness  arose  from  his  vision  of  her. 
He  re-enacted  the  intimate  moments  of  their  almost  for 
gotten  romance,  and  experienced  again  the  soft  thrill 
of  her  lips.  He  remembered  her  words  to  him  when  he 
had  last  seen  her,  and  they  brought  comfort  and  a  prom 
ise  of  rest.  She  seemed  to  hold  out  to  him  the  realization 
of  all  he  had  missed  in  other  women.  How  different  she 
was !  He  felt  a  great  longing  to  be  near  her,  to  feel  her 
hands  on  his  hair,  to  rest  his  head  against  her  breast. 
There  was  no  sexual  passion  in  his  desire,  no  hot  yearn 
ing  for  the  touch  of  her  flesh.  He  wanted  only  to  be 
close  to  her,  in  silence,  to  feel  the  security  of  her  moth 
ering  tenderness.  West  felt  that  he  had  unexpectedly 
surprised  some  secret  of  his  nature.  Irene  Brenner  and 
Margaret  Moore  had  been  but  fantastic  and  tragic  inci 
dents  in  his  life.  He  had  never  loved  either  of  them. 
They  had  blinded  him  to  the  truth.  They  had  inflamed 
his  blood  and  defrauded  him.  They  had  taken  the  best 
from  him  and  gone  their  way.  And  he  had  been  disloyal 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  193 

to  himself  and  to  the  girl  whose  love  had  first  awakened 
him  and  followed  him  throughout  the  years  of  his  degra 
dation. 

That  night  he  wrote  to  Alice  Carlisle:  "For  hours 
I  have  sat  in  the  darkness  reviewing  the  sordid  pageant 
of  the  last  six  years.  I  have  spared  myself  nothing.  I 
have  been  honest  with  myself  for  perhaps  the  first  time 
in  my  life.  I  know  the  extent  of  my  baseness.  My 
shame  is  complete,  my  sorrow  overpowering.  I  have 
looked  into  my  soul  with  wide  and  unflinching  eyes.  For 
years  I  have  cheated  myself  of  all  that  was  decent  and 
clean.  There  is  nothing  I  can  bring  forth  in  extenuation. 
The  facts  are  too  glaring,  too  hideous  to  be  disguised  by 
sophistries.  I  have  been  weak  and  unworthy.  I  have 
played  the  coward's  part,  deceived  by  the  tinsel  which  I 
mistook  for  the  gold  of  youth.  For  years  I  have  set 
aside  all  that  was  noblest  within  me.  To-night  I  awoke 
from  the  degraded  dream  which  has  so  long  enslaved  me. 
The  truth  has  staggered  me  and  filled  me  with  a  vanquish 
ing  remorse.  I  have  sullied  all  the  ideals  that  bound  my 
hopes  to  great  things.  I  am  worn  out,  repentant,  and 
filled  with  a  profound  sadness.  I  yearn  for  those  things 
from  which  I  have  been  divorced  by  my  own  blindness 
and  impotency.  I  know  now  that  I  have  strayed  from 
the  cleaner  facts  of  my  nature,  and  before  I  tell  you  the 
desire  that  has  taken  hold  of  me  and  whose  fulfilment 
means  my  regeneration,  I  want  you  to  know  all  that  I 
know.  You  must  be  able  to  look  into  my  heart  and  read 
every  word  of  its  sordid  story.  Then  if  you  can  believe 
me  and  will  try  to  forgive  me,  there  will  be  no  ghosts 
of  deceit  to  torture  me  in  the  years  to  come.  I  will  put 
it  all  brutally,  truthfully :  nothing  shall  be  glossed  over. 

"When  I  went  from  you  years  ago  I  loved  you.  At 
the  University  a  new  life,  with  new  faces  and  interests, 
turned  my  heart  away  from  you.  I  was  caught  in  the 
current  of  my  instincts  which  had  been  liberated  by  my 
change  of  environment.  I  met  many  girls — girls  of  the 


i94  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

street,  the  world's  castaways.  I  paid  them  their  price 
and  took  what  they  had  to  give.  Later  I  imagined  I 
had  fallen  in  love,  and  for  two  years  I  lived  with  a  girl. 
I  failed  because  of  my  weakness  for  her,  because  I  was 
not  strong  enough  to  overcome  my  infatuation.  I  arose 
from  the  muck  of  that  affair,  but  when  I  came  to  New 
York,  I  once  more  sank  down  into  the  depths.  Again  I 
imagined  myself  in  love.  I  laid  the  best  of  me  upon  an 
other  woman's  altar.  A  sordid  year  passed — a  year  of 
misfortune  and  degradation.  I  forgot  that  life  had  its 
exaltations.  I  let  my  work  drift.  I  sold  my  decent 
dreams  for  the  spurious  rewards  of  debauch.  The  girl 
was  to  have  a  child,  and  I  even  abetted  her  in  circum 
venting  motherhood.  I  have  been  discharged  from  my 
paper.  I  am  alone,  disgraced,  desolate,  fouled  with  the 
mud  of  my  soul's  corruption. 

"But  out  of  the  mess  I  have  made  of  my  life  one  fact 
arises — a  fact  which  for  years  has  remained  hidden.  And 
somehow  that  fact  is  the  only  thing  that  holds  me  to  the 
future.  It  has  been  with  me  always,  submerged  in  the 
recesses  of  my  heart.  It  is  this:'  I  love  you — I  have 
always  loved  you,  and  I  shall  love  you  eternally.  That  I 
ever  should  have  thought  otherwise  only  proves  how 
far  I  have  drifted  from  the  truth.  But  to-night  I  know 
that  your  love  has  been  the  one  great  steadfast  circum 
stance  of  my  manhood.  I  have  seen  the  meanness  and 
shallowness  of  other  loves — their  transiency  and  their 
unworthiness.  That  knowledge  I  have  paid  for  dearly, 
but  since  it  has  brought  me  a  realization  of  the  truth  and 
given  back  to  me  the  wonder  of  my  love  for  you,  I  shall 
not  count  the  cost.  That  which  I  want  now  above  every 
thing  is  your  compassion  and  forgiveness.  I  have  noth 
ing  to  offer  you.  I  am  broken  and  defeated ;  and  yet  if  I 
might  come  to  you  and  know  that  you  understood,  it 
would  give  me  courage  and  strength.  You  alone  can  sal 
vage  the  wreck  of  my  life.  I  need  your  faith  in  me.  I 
need  the  peace  and  the  comfort  that  only  you  can  give 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  195 

me.  I  feel  that  I  am  pleading  with  you  for  my  very 
existence.  But  my  love  for  you  is  the  one  reality  that 
has  clung  to  me.  All  else  in  the  world  is  meaningless. 
Let  me  come  back  to  you.  Let  me  prove  to  you  that  I 
am  still  able  to  conquer.  Help  me  find  once  more  those 
magic  lost  dreams  of  our  days  together." 


XX 

THE  following  May  Stanford  West  married  Alice  Car 
lisle.  There  had  been  no  hesitancy  on  her  part  in  for 
giving  him.  She  had  written  him  immediately  a  long  ten 
der  letter  of  the  kind  he  might  have  expected  from  his 
mother.  It  contained  the  first  evidences  of  her  maturity. 
It  was  calm  and  generous,  a  little  wistful  also,  as  if  her 
heart  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  and  yet  as  if  she  were 
glad  of  her  sorrow  because  it  carried  with  it  its  own  balm 
and  compensation.  Her  letter  said  that  she  knew  and 
had  always  known  he  would  some  day  come  back  to  her, 
because  he  was  not  wholly  bad,  but  had  merely  been  tem 
porarily  weak.  Her  love  was  big  enough,  she  wrote,  to 
blot  out  the  past — so  big,  in  fact,  that  she  could  again 
take  him  in  her  arms  and  look  upon  him  with  the  same 
peace  of  mind  as  when  he  had  gone  from  her  years  ago. 

Something  in  her  words  gave  West  the  impression  that 
she  was  actually  glad  he  had  been  broken  by  the  world 
and  had  sought  refuge  in  her  love.  There  was  a  veiled 
pride  in  her  magnanimity.  Had  her  attitude  been  car 
ried  a  degree  further  it  would  have  bordered  on  conde 
scension.  Hitherto  she  had  leaned  upon  him  depend- 
ently.  She  had  accepted  life  more  or  less  at  his  valuation. 
She  had  subjugated  herself  to  the  positivity  of  his  nature. 
In  thought  and  action  he  had  dominated  her  quietly  and 
subtly;  and  she  had  moulded  herself  to  the  dictates  of  his 
strength.  Her  attitude  toward  him  had  always  been  in 
a  measure  subservient.  In  his  presence  she  had  exhib 
ited  a  natural  and  complacent  humility.  She  had  looked 
up  to  him  admiringly,  taking  colour  from  his  ideas. 

In  her  letter  all  this  had  changed,  not  openly,  perhaps 

196 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  197 

not  even  consciously;  but  her  instinct  of  submission  and 
service  had  given  way  to  one  of  maternalism  and  owner 
ship.  The  idol  to  whom  she  had  heretofore  had  to  lift 
her  eyes  now  lay  at  her  feet,  and  she  alone  could  re 
instate  it.  She  was  the  one  who  must  give :  he  was  the 
recipient.  It  was  he  who  needed  her.  This  first  con 
fession  of  his  weakness  awoke  in  her  a  new  point  of  view. 
It  took  from  her  the  last  vestige  of  her  girlhood,  and 
filled  her  with  a  sense  of  responsibility  she  had  never  be 
fore  experienced.  There  were  passages  of  hope  and 
encouragement  in  her  letter,  and  she  had  written  them 
with  a  novel  feeling  of  surety  in  his  love.  For  this  sense 
of  power  and  confidence  she  was  more  than  willing  to  ac 
cept  the  sorrow  which  accompanied  it.  The  memories 
of  his  faithlessness  became  intimate  and  cherished  fac 
tors  of  her  life. 

West  had  returned  to  her  at  once.  Before  he  had 
reached  her  the  lassitude  of  his  physical  reaction  had 
passed,  and  he  was  angry  with  himself  for  having  written 
to  her  as  he  did.  Even  his  remorse  had  disappeared  with 
the  passing  of  his  mental  fatigue,  and  he  was  ashamed 
at  having  laid  bare  the  mood  of  his  depression.  His  spir 
itual  strength  had  returned.  He  wondered  how  he  could 
have  attached  so  much  importance  to  his  failure.  It  was 
not  as  if  he  had  been  older;  he  was  indeed  incredibly 
young.  There  were  years  ahead  of  him  in  which  to  recu 
perate.  As  he  looked  back  over  his  life  even  the  regrets 
he  had  harboured  vanished  from  his  mind.  His  experi 
ences  had  taught  him  much.  To  be  sure,  he  had  lost  a 
great  deal,  but  had  he  not  gained  also?  When  he  asked 
himself  if  he  would  be  willing  to  go  back  and  eliminate 
both  Irene  Brenner  and  Margaret  Moore  from  the 
scheme  of  his  existence,  he  hesitated;  and  in  that  mo 
ment  of  speculation  he  realized  that,  although  he  would 
gladly  have  changed  somewhat  the  course  of  his  past  life, 
he  would  not  willingly  have  forgone  it  utterly.  Even 
the  horror  of  Margaret  Moore's  days  of  pregnancy  had 


198  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

been  a  salutary  experience.  He  had  paid  a  high  price, 
but  he  had  gained  a  deeper  and  truer  knowledge  of  the 
world. 

Therefore  when  he  had  stood  face  to  face  with  Alice 
Carlisle  he  was  ashamed  of  the  intellectual  cowardice 
which  had  led  him  into  approaching  her  with  so  abject 
a  contrition.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  his  past  actions 
but  of  his  attitude  toward  them.  He  resented  his  words 
to  her,  just  as  he  had  felt  an  unpleasant  sensation  in 
reading  her  answer.  She,  on  seeing  him,  misunderstood 
his  humiliation,  and  in  her  efforts  to  comfort  him  she 
only  emphasized  his  mortification.  He  was  in  no  frame 
of  mind  to  be  patronized,  for  the  pendulum  of  his  self- 
confidence  had  again  swung  far  forward.  He  was  not 
offended,  however,  at  the  girl's  gentleness.  The  very 
error  of  her  judgment  increased  his  sympathy  and  love 
for  her.  At  times  he  smiled  inwardly  at  her  earnest  man 
ner  which  was  calculated  to  relieve  his  mind  of  its  bur 
den.  Her  sweetness,  her  kindness,  her  unselfishness, 
formed  a  violent  contrast  to  the  attributes  of  the  other 
women  he  had  known,  and  his  desire  to  marry  her  was 
as  strong  as  it  had  been  on  the  night  he  had  turned  to 
her  from  the  sodden  wreckage  of  his  New  York  experi 
ence.  The  lethargy  of  sex  was  still  upon  him. 

A  new  atmosphere  hung  over  his  home  on  his  return. 
His  mother  had  been  openly  reproachful,  but  beneath  her 
disapprobation  West  detected  the  pride  of  victory.  He 
had  not  followed  her  advice  or  succumbed  to  her  wishes, 
and  he  had  finally  been  driven  back  to  her  by  his  inability 
to  make  good  his  revolt.  By  no  word  or  action  did  she 
directly  indicate  this  patent  fact,  but  that  she  was  con 
stantly  aware  of  it  and  gloried  in  it  was  evident  in  her 
silences  as  well  as  in  her  words  of  reproval.  Despite  her 
love  for  him  West  was  never  without  a  feeling  of  guilt 
when  in  her  presence.  His  father  chose  to  ignore  the 
episode,  and  avoided  mentioning  either  his  son's  work 
or  plans  for  the  future.  In  each  other's  presence  there 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  199 

existed,  nevertheless,  the  consciousness  of  the  affair. 
Notwithstanding  that  on  the  surface  things  assumed  a 
conventional  mien,  there  were  undercurrents,  subtle  and 
insidious,  which  gave  to  West's  life  a  decided  tinge  of 
unpleasantness. 

Although  neither  his  mother  nor  father  interfered  to 
any  great  extent  with  his  decision  to  marry  Alice  Car 
lisle,  it  became  obvious  to  West  that  they  no  longer  re 
garded  such  an  alliance  with  approval.  Their  objections 
had  to  do  with  the  circumstances  surrounding  it.  West 
was  penniless  and  had  disgraced  himself.  Alice  Carlisle 
had  inherited  a  small  fortune  from  her  father,  and  it 
was  on  this  that  the  young  people  would  have  to  live  un 
til  such  a  time  as  West  should  establish  himself.  The 
girl  had  been  the  one  to  suggest  it,  and,  despite  her  wil 
lingness  to  contribute  to  their  support,  West's  parents 
could  not  reconcile  the  arrangement  with  their  social 
ideas.  Again,  they  had  lost  confidence  in  their  son  and 
feared  for  Alice  Carlisle's  future  happiness.  They  be 
lieved  he  should  wait  until  he  had  his  success  well  in 
hand  before  entering  into  a  partnership  where  both  would 
suffer  for  the  failures  of  the  one.  Stanford  West's  an 
swers  to  his  father's  tentative  suggestions  only  increased 
the  older  man's  fears.  The  date  for  the  marriage  had 
been  set,  and  when  Joseph  West  saw  that  remonstrance 
was  futile,  he  accepted  the  forthcoming  event  with  the 
same  quiet  acquiescence  which  had  characterized  his  at 
titude  toward  all  of  his  son's  head-strong  decisions. 

Stanford  West  did  not  share  his  parents'  scruples 
about  taking  Alice  Carlisle's  money.  Even  had  he  been 
disinclined  to  accept  her  inheritance,  she  would  have 
overcome  his  chivalry.  In  fact,  she  forestalled  any  sen 
sitiveness  he  might  have  displayed  by  insisting  constantly 
on  the  absolute  oneness  of  their  possessions  as  well  as 
their  interests.  Her  new  feeling  of  ownership  dictated 
this  insistence.  She  had  become  suddenly  jealous  of  all 
other  influences  in  his  life.  She  desired  to  be  all  things 


200  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

to  him;  and  for  the  first  time  she  experienced  an  antag 
onism  toward  his  mother,  a  mild  and  half -formulated 
resentment  toward  the  older  woman's  intimate  relations 
with  her  son.  Since  West  had  been  defeated  he  had  be 
come  in  her  eyes  a  child  in  need  of  care  and  protection, 
and  she  felt  that  the  prerogative  of  comforting  him  was 
hers  alone.  That  part  of  her  earlier  love  for  him  which 
had  been  admiration  had  now  turned  to  pity,  and  it  had 
brought  to  her  an  emotion  far  more  personal  and  funda 
mental  than  her  former  sentiment.  She  was  secretly 
glad  that  it  was  in  her  power  to  give  him  a  chance  to 
rehabilitate  himself,  and  when  she  had  insisted  on  his 
receiving  her  money  as  if  it  had  been  his  own,  she  was 
guided  by  a  deep  instinct  of  protective  service.  His 
acceptance  made  her  feel  that  she  had  won  an  unassail 
able  and  complete  victory  over  those  elements  in  his  life 
which  questioned  her  single  and  entire  possession  of  him. 
It  insured  his  total  dependence  on  her :  it  closed  up  every 
means  whereby  he  might  escape  the  toils  of  her  love. 

West,  in  turn,  regarding  the  matter  from  the  selfish 
vantage  ground  of  his  own  career,  saw  in  it  the  answer 
to  his  problems  concerning  the  future.  He  looked  upon 
Alice  Carlisle's  love  and  the  advantages  that  went  with 
it  as  a  propitious  combination  of  circumstances  set  in  his 
path  by  the  benevolent  powers  which  controlled  his  des 
tiny.  There  was  little  doubt  in  his  mind  that  he  loved 
the  girl,  although  his  emotion  for  her  was  not  a  pas 
sionate  and  consuming  desire  such  as  he  had  possessed 
for  other  women.  He  was  not  inclined  to  regret  this 
latter  fact.  His  experience  had  made  him  suspicious  of 
the  genuineness  of  brisk  and  heated  affections ;  and  he 
accepted  his  emotions  toward  Alice  Carlisle  as  the  indi 
cators  of  a  sane  and  lasting  love. 

She  answered  to  the  impelling  needs  of  his  present 
mental  condition,  and  it  was  with  the  calm  of  perfect 
contentment  that  he  visualized  her  love  following  him 
throughout  the  years  of  his  future.  Her  sympathy  in 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  201 

his  work  was  genuine  and  spontaneous.  She  had  no 
interests  save  those  he  brought  into  her  life.  Her  nature 
was  simple  and  direct,  yet  not  commonplace,  for  her 
mind  operated  on  a  higher  plane  than  that  of  the  aver 
age  woman.  It  was  quick  and  receptive,  eager  and  im 
pressionable.  It  was  not  cluttered  with  the  narrow  and 
conventional  ideals  which  one  might  expect  in  a  girl  of 
her  upbringing.  West  did  not  fear  restraining  influences 
such  as  were  exerted  on  him  by  his  mother.  He  felt  that 
he  could  dominate  Alice  Carlisle  in  case  of  intellectual 
dissension.  Her  personality  was  negative;  but  it  was 
not  the  negation  of  weakness :  it  was  a  negation  which 
functioned  and  took  its  place  as  an  important  factor  in 
the  world's  sexual  polarity,  a  negation  which  compli 
mented  his  positiveness. 

The  instinct  to  become  settled  was  now  uppermost  in 
West's  being.  The  bufferings  the  world  had  given  him 
made  him  long  for  the  serenity  of  a  permanent  anchor 
age.  He  wanted  quiet  and  peace  in  which  to  give  birth 
to  the  ideas  which  clamoured  for  expression.  These 
were  the  things  Alice  Carlisle  held  out  to  him.  With  her 
he  would  be  wholly  free  to  follow  the  path  of  his  aspira 
tions.  Even  the  necessity  of  supporting  himself  was 
eliminated.  There  would  be  no  need  of  concessions  to 
the  demands  of  editors  and  publishers,  for  compromises 
with  his  inner  ambitions.  There  was  enough  money  for 
many  years  of  comfort.  By  the  time  it  was  gone  he 
would  be  well  on  the  great  highway  to  exalted  consum 
mation.  Perhaps  even  by  then  recognition  would  have 
come  to  him,  although  he  counted  little  on  this.  It  would 
take  the  world  many  years  to  come  abreast  of  his  ideals. 
But  he  had  no  fear  for  his  future  now.  The  introduc 
tory  years  of  struggle  and  misunderstanding,  of  obloquy 
and  condemnation,  were  provided  for.  Fate  had  been 
kind  to  him.  Already  he  felt  the  thrill  of  high  achieve 
ment,  the  intoxication  of  strenuous  conquest. 

The  months   preceding  his   marriage   were   peaceful 


202  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

ones.  Each  day  perceptibly  diminished  the  impression 
made  on  him  by  the  feverish  activities  of  his  past  life. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  suddenly  emerged  from  a  gigantic 
factory  loud  with  the  clatter  of  mysterious  machinery, 
into  the  restful  quietude  of  out-of-doors.  His  years  both 
at  the  University  and  in  New  York  were  but  confusion, 
a  turbulence  which  had  fallen  upon  his  youth.  That 
was  all  over  now.  Not  even  a  sense  of  their  reality  lin 
gered.  They  might  have  been  a  dream  so  far  as  they 
affected  him  personally.  A  new  life  of  far-reaching  op 
portunities  had  come  to  him — a  life  of  security,  of  si 
lent  labour,  of  physical  ease  and  mental  elation.  All 
winter  a  great  calm  lay  on  his  soul.  He  had  no  desire 
to  go  forth  and  battle  with  the  elements  of  existence. 
Life  lay  submissive  at  his  feet.  The  easy-going  habits 
of  mind  that  had  been  his  during  the  first  months  of  his 
romance  with  Alice  Carlisle  returned.  When  he  was  not 
with  her  now  he  read,  or  dreamed  of  the  smooth  upward 
course  the  coming  years  were  to  take.  He  was  in  no 
haste.  There  were  no  obstacles  to  interfere  with  his  de 
velopment.  His  triumph  seemed  inevitable.  A  divine 
tolerance  toward  all  things  pervaded  him. 

Spring  came  early.  West  watched  the  new  green  creep 
into  the  hills  and  across  the  fields.  There  was  no  sad 
ness  or  regret  in  this  springtime  as  there  had  been  in 
past  years.  How  far  away  was  his  boyhood  with  its 
memories  of  other  vernal  rebirths  among  these  familiar 
scenes !  How  changed  was  the  spirit  of  the  hills !  One 
day  he  walked  far  down  the  river  until  he  was  opposite 
the  island  where  he  had  first  told  his  love  to  Alice  Car 
lisle.  How  young  he  had  been !  How  old  he  was  now ! 
He  thought  of  the  girl  as  she  had  looked  then  in  the  cold 
twilight.  The  years  had  changed  her  greatly.  A  wom 
anly  dignity  had  come  to  her.  The  gold  of  her  hair  had 
darkened.  Her  eyes  were  calmer.  To  West  she  ap 
peared  more  desirable  as  a  woman  than  as  a  girl.  Was 
she  indeed  not  more  competent  and  dependable  ?  He  did 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  203 

not  ask  himself  why  he  should  have  demanded  these 
traits  in  her.  Formerly  they  would  have  militated 
against  her.  Her  very  weakness  and  dependence  had 
once  touched  him  deeply  and  made  him  more  conscious 
of  his  power.  He  was  happy  now  to  lean  upon  the 
strength  of  her  love.  But  he  did  not  question  the  change 
in  himself.  His  contentment  was  too  profound  to  per 
mit  of  self-analysis.  Nor  did  he  even  attempt  to  trace 
the  true  source  of  that  contentment.  For  the  time  be 
ing  he  was  willing  to  forgo  all  but  the  placid  reality  of 
the  present. 

His  wedding  was  simple  and  quiet.  Seminoff  had 
come  to  Greenwood  at  West's  request.  He  was  more 
silent  than  was  his  custom  and  talked  little  of  West's 
future  even  when  the  latter  urged  it  upon  him.  In  re 
sponse  to  direct  questions  he  was  politely  evasive  as  if 
the  subject  was  distasteful  to  him.  At  the  first  oppor 
tunity  he  departed,  pleading  pressing  duties.  West  was 
grieved  at  the  episode.  There  had  been  a  silent  accusa 
tion  in  Seminoff's  manner.  The  bond  between  these  two 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  intimacy :  a  note  of  formality  had 
entered  into  their  relationship.  Seminoff's  restraint  filled 
West  with  speculations.  He  felt  a  sudden  longing  for 
the  close  and  frank  fellowship  of  their  former  days  to 
gether.  The  status  of  that  fellowship  took  on  a  pro 
nounced  importance,  and  it  was  with  a  sensation  of  hav 
ing  lost  something  valuable  and  consequential  that  he 
turned  to  the  details  of  his  new  life. 

This  feeling  would  not  quit  his  mind.  Once  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Alice  Carlisle,  now  his  wife,  busying 
herself  with  his  affairs,  he  silently  blamed  her  for  taking 
his  friend  from  him.  He  realized  her  incapacity  to  fill 
the  void  left  by  Seminoff's  departure.  Intellectually  she 
could  not  give  him  that  which  appeared  to  have  passed 
from  his  life.  He  had  not  considered  this  point  before. 
His  mind  during  the  past  month  had  been  too  concen 
trated  on  his  material  welfare,  on  the  opportunities  af- 


204  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

forded  him  by  his  new  venture.  A  loneliness  seized  him, 
a  sense  of  isolation,  a  conviction  that,  though  life  had 
given  him  much,  it  had  at  the  same  time  demanded  a 
requisite  compensation.  Even  his  wife's  gentleness  and 
love  failed  to  balance  this  new  weight  of  solitude.  She 
gratified  only  one  side  of  his  nature.  When  he  held  her 
in  his  arms  and  felt  how  completely  he  filled  every  desire 
of  her  heart  and  mind,  he  was  more  than  ever  impressed 
with  his  loneliness.  Only  in  small  degree  did  she  quench 
the  thirst  of  his  intellect ;  and  that  small  part  of  her  which 
overlapped  his  brain  intensified  his  craving  for  mascu 
line  intercourse. 

And  now  he  was  not  free  to  go  from  her  and  seek  the 
companionships  of  his  desire.  He  thought  back  to  the 
summer  Seminoff  and  he  had  passed  in  their  lonely  camp. 
He  pictured  Alice  Carlisle  as  his  sole  companion  on  such 
an  adventure  and  experienced  simultaneously  a  feeling 
of  incompleteness  due  to  her  inadequacy  to  meet  his  men 
tal  demands.  The  day  after  their  marriage  they  walked 
into  the  hills  along  the  path  they  had  taken  on  their  first 
meeting.  Even  the  spell  of  the  out-of-doors  had  van 
ished.  West  was  silent  a  long  time  speculating  on  the 
subtle  change  that  had  come  over  him.  .  .  .  Freedom: 
that  was  what  had  gone  from  him.  He  was  no  longer 
the  arbitrary  dictator  of  his  actions.  A  responsibility 
to  another  had  impeded  the  prodigal  play  of  his  in 
stincts.  He  was  bound  down  by  obligations,  by  duties,  by 
the  necessity  of  considering  the  consequences  of  his  acts. 
These  restrictions  were  not  tangible.  He  could  not  put 
his  finger  on  any  point  where  they  obtruded  on  his  im 
pulses.  He  had  not  encountered  any  situation  where  he 
was  compelled  to  make  a  deliberate  choice  between  his 
free-will  and  the  prescriptions  of  his  new  environment. 
But  he  was  conscious  of  the  presence  of  some  influ 
ence  whose  roots  were  outside  himself — an  influence 
which,  when  the  time  came,  would  exert  itself  against 
him.  He  was  like  a  man  strapped  to  a  chair,  who,  though 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  205 

at  the  moment  he  had  no  inclination  to  arise,  knew  he 
would  never  be  able  to.  Perhaps,  even,  he  would  never 
desire  to  arise :  nevertheless  he  was  aware  of  the  fact 
of  his  bondage. 

West  could  not  locate  any  of  the  specific  evidences  of 
his  subjugation.  He  could  bring  no  direct  accusation 
against  the  girl  he  had  married.  She  loved  him  too  de 
votedly  to  stand  deliberately  in  the  way  of  his  desires. 
Her  one  concern  in  life  was  his  happiness.  To  this  end 
she  was  willing  to  sacrifice  everything.  She  was  con 
vinced  of  his  ability  to  rise  to  greatness,  and  she  was 
prepared  to  assist  him  to  her  utmost  in  attaining  to  it. 
She  knew  he  was  unusual :  in  so  far  as  she  was  able  to 
cope  with  his  superiority,  she  appreciated  him.  She  be 
lieved  she  could  help  him.  Her  sympathy  was  large, 
and  she  had  no  ambitions  other  than  those  embodied  in 
him  and  his  work.  When  he  told  her  of  the  clashes  be 
tween  his  ideals  and  those  of  his  mother,  she  glowed 
with  an  inward  pride,  for  she  told  herself  she  could  see 
far  beyond  the  confines  of  the  other  woman's  narrow 
vision.  She  did  not  wish  West  to  sacrifice  himself  to 
the  College  at  Greenwood.  He  was  formed  for  better 
and  larger  things.  She  thought  of  the  world's  great 
men :  she  had  read  their  books ;  and  she  was  confident  that 
some  day  her  husband  would  sit  in  their  company.  This 
belief  of  hers  amounted  almost  to  a  passion.  All  he 
needed  was  encouragement  and  understanding.  These 
she  would  bring  to  him;  and  he  would  appreciate  them, 
and  his  way  would,  therefore,  be  made  easier. 

Against  the  wishes  of  his  parents  West  had  deter 
mined  to  settle  in  London.     He  believed  he  would  find 
there  a  greater  intellectual  freedom,  a  more  comprehen 
sive  understanding  of  the  things  he  was  to  strive  for.      / 
He  had  few  affinities  with  his  own  country.     It  was  too  v 
young  to  be  satisfying  as  a  milieu  for  his  cultural  ideals. 
The   splendid  tradition   of   English   letters  appealed  to 
him  as  a  more  congenial  bed  for  the  fructification  of  his 


206  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

work.  England's  literary  past  was  full  of  the  glories 
of  antiquity.  An  atmosphere  of  profounder  cultivation 
surrounded  the  lives  of  writers.  There  he  would  find 
men  nearer  his  own  stature.  There  too  he  would  find  a 
keener  interest  in  aesthetics.  The  refinements  of  an  old 
and,  in  many  ways,  admirable  civilization  still  influenced 
the  nation's  productiveness,  England's  heritage  still 
had  the  power  to  inspire  those  who  chose  to  put  them 
selves  in  its  keeping. 

West  was  not  searching  for  the  beaten  paths  of  old; 
but  he  knew  that,  if  he  was  to  ascend  to  the  greatest 
heights,  he  must  build  on  the  foundation  of  knowledge 
and  aspiration  laid  by  the  Titans  of  the  past.  There  was 
no  cultural  past  in  America ;  and  he  was  lured  by  the  ex 
alted  names  and  deeds  in  the  history  of  English  letters. 
The  game  of  authorship  was  a  serious  affair  in  England. 
There  it  possessed  dignity,  even  grandeur.  It  was  not  a 
plaything,  an  imitative  craft  designed  for  amusement,  as 
in  America.  There  were  many  journals  given  over  to 
its  consideration.  There  were  critics  versed  in  its  pur 
poses  and  procedure,  critics  of  lofty  and  scholarly  at 
tainments.  Eagerly  his  mind  turned  toward  London, 
toward  the  men  who  were  struggling  for  new  and  vital 
expression,  toward  the  intelligent  hospitality  which  a 
body  of  the  younger  authors  held  out  to  heretical  ideas 
and  valiant  hopes.  The  first  efforts  of  these  men  had 
even  now  begun  to  invade  the  sacred  academism  of  the 
older  schools.  Their  exact  tendencies  were  not  determin- 
able  as  yet,  but  there  was  already  a  proclaimed  dissatis 
faction  with  the  old,  a  striking  out  into  uncharted  waters, 
a  straining  toward  a  new  vitality.  This  activity  West 
considered  as  indicative  of  a  modern  Renaissance,  a  flow 
ering  of  seeds  after  a  century  of  intense  germination. 
It  was  the  demand  of  youth  to  be  heard,  a  shaking  up 
of  the  bones  of  the  older  gods,  a  destruction  of  ancient 
idols.  The  energy  of  it,  that  which  it  promised,  appealed 
to  him.  He  believed  it  would  pave  the  way  to  dauntless 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  207 

and  unrestricted  expression,  that  out  of  the  upheaval 
majestic  achievements,  august  ideas,  a  nobler  culture, 
would  evolve.  He  read  into  these  signs  his  own  hopes 
for  another  Golden  Age,  for  a  passionate  recrudescence 
of  the  creative  will.  He  wished  to  be  there  fighting  in 
the  vortex.  He  wanted  to  be  part  of  this  colossal  reac 
tion  against  the  senility  and  the  romantic  decay  of  the 
Victorians. 

Other  things  influenced  in  minor  degree  his  ambition 
to  live  in  London.  There  were  relatives  of  his  mother 
who  held  influential  positions  in  that  city  and  who  had 
expressed  a  desire  to  have  him  visit  them.  Antony  An 
dersen,  with  whom  he  had  kept  in  communication,  was 
now  connected  with  one  of  the  largest  London  art  publi 
cations.  And  two  of  Alice  Carlisle's  most  intimate  girl 
friends — acquaintances  of  her  school  days — were  mar 
ried  and  living  in  a  London  suburb.  They  had  estab 
lished  a  sane  and  somewhat  enviable  social  position  for 
themselves,  and  West  felt  that  their  affection  for  his 
wife  would  eliminate  the  loneliness  which  would  have 
been  sure  to  settle  on  her  had  she  entered  London  with 
out  attachments.  He  would  not  be  utterly  alone  in  a 
strange  country.  Andersen,  he  knew,  would  initiate  him 
into  the  secrets  and  bypaths  of  the  literary  field:  and 
there  was  already  the  nucleus  of  a  social  life  which  would 
occupy  his  wife's  hours  when  he  was  busy  with  his  la 
bours.  He  regarded  his  voluntary  expatriation  with  an 
ticipatory  satisfaction.  Again  the  lines  of  his  life  had 
been  cast  advantageously. 


XXI 

STANFORD  WEST'S  first  serious  intellectual  shock  came 
when  he  met  and  talked  with  the  men  who  had  insti 
gated  the  new  movement  in  English  letters.  He  had  been 
in  London  for  over  a  year,  planning  his  work,  making 
copious  notes,  co-ordinating  the  material  he  had  at  hand, 
attuning  himself,  through  reading  and  research,  to  the 
spirit  he  longed  to  express.  He  had  given  little  time  or 
attention  to  contemporaneous  letters.  He  had  made  no 
inquiry  into  the  motives  or  qualifications  of  the  men 
who  were  attempting  to  break  through  the  crust  of  tra 
dition.  Evidences  of  their  activities  were  on  all  sides. 
The  conservative  and  academic  press  paused  occasionally 
to  ridicule  them  or  to  utter  a  warning  against  their  doc 
trines.  West  was  conscious  of  the  effects  of  their  work. 
He  had  not  looked  into  the  causes  of  their  heterodoxy, 
for  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  throw  himself  into  the  fray. 
Through  Andersen  he  had  met  casually  many  of  the 
younger  men,  had  heard  them  talk  in  generalities,  had  felt 
the  impetus  of  their  revolutionary  candour.  He  had 
seen  copies  of  one  or  two  independent  reviews,  and  the 
ardour  and  youth  of  them  had  appealed  to  him.  He  be 
lieved  that  a  forum  was  being  established  for  the  propa 
gation  of  intrepid  ideas,  and  he  prepared  himself  for  the 
day  when  he  would  take  a  hand. 

But  before  that  day  arrived  he  came  into  more  intimate 
contact  with  the  minds  and  motivating  beliefs  which 
had  set  the  wheels  of  reaction  in  motion.  The  experience 
left  him  with  much  the  same  feeling  of  isolation  and  dis 
appointment  that  had  followed  his  first  intellectual  grap 
pling  with  the  student  body  at  the  University.  The 

208 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  209 

whole  revolt  was  superficial  and  spurious.  Basically  it 
was  banal.  It  was  implanted  in  no  sound  foundation  of 
culture  and  aristocracy.  And  in  itself  it  was  as  narrow 
as  the  idealism  against  which  it  was  aimed.  Its  mod 
ernity  and  novelty  were  largely  matters  of  diction. 
Stripped  of  its  terminological  integuments  it  was  com 
monplace,  even  obvious.  It  was  in  direct  opposition  to 
the  classic  viewpoint.  At  bottom  it  was  socialistic.  It 
apotheosized  ignorance :  it  made  a  fetich  of  mediocre  as 
pirations.  It  contained  no  purity  in  the  educational  sense. 
Its  animating  force  was  cleverness,  not  profundity.  It 
drew  no  line  of  demarcation  between  the  high  and  the 
low.  In  fact,  those  very  constituents  of  traditional  learn 
ing  which  had  retained  the  elements  of  ancient  nobility 
were  assailed  with  a  dogmatism  far  denser  than  the  dog 
matism  sought  to  be  wiped  out.  It  was  the  philosophy  of 
the  man  in  the  street  given  scandalous  articulation.  It 
derided  the  prejudices  and  sentimentalities  of  the  middle 
classes — qualities  necessary  to  complement  the  demands 
of  an  exalted  aristocratic  existence — with  a  prejudice 
and  sentimentality  which  had  no  place  in  any  social 
scheme  save  a  communistic  one.  Two  of  the  leaders  of 
the  new  revolt  were  professed  socialists,  busy  with  the 
work  of  reform,  expending  their  energies  in  dialectic 
and  statistical  pamphleteering.  These  men  were  not  high 
thinkers  fighting  for  a  rejuvenescence  of  noble  ideals, 
but  sharp-witted  and  fearless  doctrinaires  striving  to  es 
tablish  a  social  order  which  would  make  impossible  a 
ruling  intellectual  class,  which  would  put  a  premium  on 
the  mediocre  intellect,  which  would  absorb  and  nullify  all 
effort  to  arise  above  the  wallow  of  a  congenial  and  com 
fortable  philosophy,  and  which  would  destroy  automati 
cally  the  exceptional  creator.  Their  philippics  and  sar 
casm  were  hurled  at  the  established  social  institutions,  at 
religion,  law,  order,  marriage,  commercialism — all  those 
factors  on  which  the  great  man  should  build  and  rise  to 
rarer  heights.  Even  science,  because  it  implied  intellec- 


210  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

tual  specialization  out  of  reach  of  the  ignorant  man,  was 
attacked  viciously.  Art  itself  was  held  in  contempt  be 
cause  it  demanded  for  appreciation  an  aesthetic  superiority 
to  which  the  average  man  could  not  attain. 

Nor  was  there  among  these  young  iconoclasts  a  chance 
for  individual  ideas.  They  were  all  held  together  by  a 
common  socialistic  attitude.  They  were  working  not  for 
mental  liberation,  but  for  the  inculcation  of  their  specific 
doctrines,  for  a  more  stringent  and  comprehensive  ser 
vitude  of  thought.  The  first  books  of  a  great  German 
thinker  had  just  made  their  appearance  in  translation. 
They  were  denounced  bitterly  as  being  opposed  to  the 
principles  of  the  new  school.  West  was  filled  with  min 
gled  amazement  and  disappointment.  These  men,  who 
he  had  hoped  would  open  the  door  to  his  heresies,  be 
came  at  once  a  dangerous  and  influential  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  the  books  he  had  planned.  But  they  did  not 
wholly  dishearten  him.  Surely  there  must  be  other  men 
in  England  capable  of  recognizing  the  purity  of  his  am 
bitions.  Sooner  or  later  he  was  sure  to  find  them.  He 
returned  to  his  work  saddened  and  burdened  with  soli 
tude.  He  reproached  himself  for  expecting  to  meet  with 
sympathy.  His  path  was  a  difficult  one,  but  he  did  not 
fear  to  follow  it. 

During  her  first  year  in  London  Alice  West  was  busy 
establishing  herself.  She  had  made  many  friends.  She 
had  gathered  about  her  an  increasing  circle  of  admirers, 
and  her  afternoons  and  evenings  were  filled  with  social 
pleasures  and  relaxations.  There  were  always  invita 
tions  to  small  affairs,  theatre  parties,  concerts,  dinners 
and  drives.  To  this  life  West  himself  had  contributed 
much.  His  ability  to  take  the  lead  and  hold  it,  his  in 
gratiating  personality,  his  learning  and  broad  interests, 
his  instinct  for  play — these  qualities  made  him  a  valuable 
and  desirable  member  of  formal  and  informal  gatherings. 
Alice  West  too  was  possessed  of  a  competent  and  pleas 
ing  manner  which  went  far  to  solidify  her  position  in 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  211 

the  circle  in  which  she  moved.  Her  physical  charm, 
which  amounted  almost  to  beauty,  was  an  added  force  to 
her  attractiveness.  West  encouraged  her  desire  to  form 
a  coterie  of  friends.  He  did  not  fear  for  their  influence 
upon  her.  She  was  of  too  serious  a  nature  to  place  these 
outside  interests  before  his  work  and  welfare.  And 
again,  the  people  with  whom  she  associated  were  not  of 
the  type  that  placed  too  great  an  insistence  upon  the 
social  phase  of  life.  Many  of  them  were  occupied  in  in 
tellectual  pursuits.  Some  were  connected  with  govern 
mental  and  diplomatic  posts.  Their  breeding  was  genu 
ine;  their  position  in  both  public  and  private  life,  assured. 
A  certain  gravity  of  purpose  lay  beneath  their  outlook. 
Their  social  diversions  were  eclectic,  the  normal  recrea 
tions  of  busy  and  important  careers,  and  possessed  that 
touch  of  informality  that  attested  to  spontaneity  and 
belied  any  accusation  of  snobbery.  It  was  not  a  wealthy, 
inactive  class  from  which  they  came,  but  a  comfortable, 
well-bred,  educated  stratum  of  gentle  people  whose  in 
stincts,  tastes  and  pursuits  dictated  their  selection  of  as 
sociates. 

Despite  his  many  distractions  and  his  absorption  in  his 
work,  West  could  not  shake  himself  free  from  the  soli 
tude  which  permeated  his  conscious  hours.  There  were 
days  when  the  lust  of  adventure  was  upon  him,  when  the 
comfort  and  security  of  his  home  life  palled.  Had  he 
been  alone,  unrestricted  by  conventional  obligations,  he 
would  have  gone  away  into  the  quiet  places  of  Europe, 
living  carelessly  as  his  mood  moved  him — a  rover  in  mind 
and  body.  He  dreamed  of  sturdy  companionships  among 
the  world's  intellectual  outcasts,  of  a  spiritual  vaga 
bondage  in  which  to-morrow  could  not  be  foreseen,  and 
in  which  the  elements  of  chance  and  danger  would  enter. 
His  old  desire  to  battle  with  life  for  what  he  should 
gain  from  it  animated  him  and  made  him  chafe  beneath 
the  suavity  and  regularity  of  his  present  existence.  Dur 
ing  such  periods  of  discontent  he  questioned  the  wisdom 


212  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

of  his  marriage  and  appraised  his  wife  with  sure  and 
impartial  judgment.  His  whole  youth  had  been  a  strug 
gle  against  those  influences  which  would  have  forced 
him  into  a  groove;  and  in  his  effort  to  escape  the  stag 
nation  of  routine  he  had  plunged  himself  into  another 
groove  from  which  he  was  helpless  to  extricate  himself. 
Had  his  early  misdemeanours  and  failures  not  been 
greatly  exaggerated  by  him?  Were  the  fruits  of  his 
weakness  as  great  as  he  had  imagined?  He  asked  him 
self  if  he  could  not  have  succeeded  alone.  Could  he  not 
have  overcome  single-handed  the  handicap  of  his  younger 
years  ? 

There  were  times  when  such  speculations  made  him 
silent  and  irritable.  And  yet  he  had  no  basis  for  com 
plaint  against  his  wife.  She  was  tender  and  affectionate. 
She  made  no  demands  on  him.  During  his  hours  of  de 
spondency  she  did  not  obtrude  herself.  She  met  his  si 
lences  with  silence.  She  did  not  question  him  or  combat 
his  decisions  despite  their  occasional  whimsicality  and 
unreasonableness.  She  loved  him  with  an  unselfish  and 
intelligent  love,  and  waited  patiently  and  trustfully  for 
the  day  when  he  should  do  great  things.  Withal  West 
could  not  disabuse  himself  of  the  belief  that  a  false  step 
had  been  taken,  that  there  were  strong  and  invisible  chem 
icals  in  his  life  that  were  subtly  altering  the  composi 
tion  of  his  nature  and  poisoning  the  alkaloids  of  his 
mind.  For  weeks  at  a  time  the  instinct  for  achievement 
deserted  him,  and  he  would  become  partially  convinced 
of  the  futility  of  brave  and  painful  action.  His  own 
ideas  failed  to  interest  him :  their  vigour  and  daring  lost 
significance.  His  contempt  for  current  inanities  of 
thought  moderated;  and  for  months  he  let  his  life  drift 
by  on  the  tide  of  disinterestedness.  The  incentive  to  ef 
fort  was  temporarily  quiescent. 

During  his  second  year  in  London  he  met  the  editor  of 
a  virile  and  independent  weekly.  The  man  was  the  first 
he  had  talked  with  in  England  who  idealized  freedom 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  213 

in  the  abstract.  His  publication,  a  healthy  counterblast 
to  the  insipidities  of  the  now  almost  defunct  fin  de  siecle 
movement,  was  being  violently  attacked  on  the  one  hand 
by  the  old  school  and  on  the  other  hand  by  the  superficial 
modernists  who  were  prating  of  the  meaninglessness  of 
art  and  upholding  the  standard  of  a  vitiated  sestheticism. 
The  cry  of  immorality  had  gone  up  from  all  traditional 
quarters,  and  the  weekly  was  in  disrepute  except  among 
its  limited  following.  Its  contributors  were  new  men, 
and  because  they  had  no  obligations  to  discharge  to  an 
outraged  public  they  threw  down  the  bars  of  their  enthu 
siasm  with  a  recklessness  of  which  only  vigorous  and  re 
pressed  youth  is  capable.  The  editor's  personality  was 
a  strong  one,  and  West  felt  his  old  ambition  rush  back 
into  his  mind.  The  man  who  had  brought  about  this 
change  in  him  was  not  profound;  his  convictions  were 
not  based  on  fundamental  precepts ;  but  he  had  a  breadth 
of  vision  and  a  tolerance  which  admirably  equipped  him 
as  a  leader.  West  cared  little  for  the  opinion  in  which 
his  review  was  held  by  the  established  and  conservative 
critics,  and  announced  his  desire  to  lend  a  hand  in  the 
fight.  Before  these  two  parted  he  had  agreed  to  furnish 
the  weekly  with  a  series  of  articles. 

West  went  to  \vork  with  an  energy  and  elan  born  of 
long  abstinence.  He  looked  upon  the  publication  of  these 
articles  as  the  first  important  step  of  his  public  career. 
They  would  be  the  opening  wedge  for  all  that  was  to  fol 
low  in  their  wake.  They  would  establish  his  stand  and 
indicate  to  his  contemporaries  that  which  they  should 
expect  from  him  later.  After  their  appearance  his  name 
would  not  be  unknown,  for  despite  the  animosity  and 
contempt  which  greeted  each  issue  of  the  weekly,  every 
one  vitally  interested  in  the  march  of  literary  ideals  fa 
miliarized  himself  with  its  contents.  West  wrote  with 
passionate  fervour,  bravely  and  vindictively.  All  his 
pent-up  convictions  and  ideas  surged  to  the  surface  and 
were  welded  into  a  consistent  and  logical  ensemble  by 


2i4  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

his  craftsmanship.  He  knew  how  to  write.  His  school 
ing  had  given  him  power,  and  he  handled  his  means  as  if 
they  had  been  as  plastic  a  medium  as  putty.  He  thought 
lucidly  and  boldly.  He  was  caught  in  the  tumultuous 
fire  of  revolt.  He  planned  his  articles  to  cover  the  whole 
field  of  his  philosophy.  They  formed  an  outlined  state 
ment  of  the  system  of  aesthetic  and  intellectual  culture  of 
which  he  had  long  dreamed.  They  were  critical  as  well 
as  expositional.  They  set  a  new  standard  of  mental 
attainment ;  and  while  they  did  not  openly  attack  the  pre 
vailing  systems  of  thought,  they  had  the  effect  of  ridi 
culing  and  opposing  the  basic  postulates  of  the  new  move 
ment. 

West  made  no  compromise  either  in  statement  or  dic 
tion.  He  was  cold  and  unsentimental.  He  attacked 
ruthlessly  the  very  structure  on  which  modern  educa 
tion,  morality  and  art  were  based.  He  insisted  upon  a 
natural  aristocracy  wherein  there  would  be  no  conces 
sions  to  the  demands  of  illiteracy.  One  of  his  papers 
dealt  specifically  with  English  methods  of  education,  and 
he  put  forward  a  series  of  radical  reforms  in  which  the 
democratic  idea  was  not  included.  Another  paper  out 
lined  an  aesthetic  rationale-for  criticism  wherein  morality 
and  ethics  played  no  part.  In  still  another  paper  he  an 
alysed  modern  moral  institutions,  denouncing  them  as 
the  greatest  enemies  of  all  worthy  aspiration,  as  the 
most  effective  impediment  in  the  path  of  a  pure  culture. 
He  censured  the  most  sacred  aspects  of  Western  civili 
zation,  pointing  out  their  deleterious  effects  of  the  de 
velopment  of  the  aesthetic  will. 

West  himself  did  not  know  the  extent  of  his  heresies. 
They  were  more  constitutionally  revolutionary  than 
those  any  other  modern  man  had  dared  utter.  They 
stripped  the  illusion  and  the  sanctity  from  the  whole 
fabric  of  life  and  replaced  them  with  doctrines  which  su 
perficially  seemed  to  reverse  the  accepted  moral  code. 
West  addressed  himself  to  the  few,  not  deeming  that  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  215 

general  reader  would  interpret  his  advocacies  literally. 
He  wrote  from  the  standpoint  of  the  superior  man,  di-     / 
recting  his  statements  to  the  leaders  and  moulders  of 
modern  thought. 

The  editor  of  the  weekly  read  the  articles  unemo 
tionally.  When  he  had  finished  he  sat  back  frowning1 
with  indecision.  West  cared  little  for  his  personal  opin 
ion,  except  in  so  far  as  it  might  influence  his  acceptance 
or  rejection  of  the  work. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  he  remarked  at  length.  "Yet 
I  won't  deny  the  power  of  your  point  of  view.  Your 
appeal  is  for  an  aristocratic  minority,  for  the  eleva 
tion  of  art  and  letters  above  any  possible  comprehension 
by  the  masses.  You  ignore  the  potentialities  of  greatness 
in  the  common  people.  You  would  sacrifice  the  whole  of 
society  for  the  benefit  of  the  few  fortunate  ones.  You 
imply  two  standards  of  conduct — an  obvious  injustice. 
You  reject  equality  which  is  the  very  foundation  of  all 
human  enterprise.  From  the  conventional  standpoint 
you  uphold — even  urge — a  vicious  immorality/'  He  re 
garded  West  critically.  "You  advocate  the  one  thing 
which  will  shock  and  horrify  the  public  more  than  any 
thing  else  you  could  have  written.  .  .  .  Are  you  pre 
pared  to  take  the  consequences?" 

The  articles  were  featured.  They  were  run  in  bold 
type  and  leaded.  They  could  escape  the  eye  of  no  one 
who  glanced  through  the  weekly's  pages.  Their  effect 
was  electric  and  instantaneous.  They  were  criticized  al 
most  entirely  on  moral  grounds.  There  was  scarcely 
a  well-known  critical  organ  in  London  which  did  not 
attack  him.  West's  bitterest  detractors  were  the  younger 
men  from  whom  he  had  originally  expected  intelligent 
sympathy.  The  older  academic  publications  denounced 
him  as  an  enemy  to  all  decency  and  order,  and  there  were 
papers  which  stooped  to  personal  incrimination.  Had 
the  articles  been  less  competently  and  resourcefully  pre 
sented  they  would  have  been  received  with  less  gravity. 


216  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

They  might  have  been  dismissed  as  youthful  attempts 
to  startle.  But  no  such  attitude  was  possible  under  the 
circumstances.  They  attested  to  too  capable  and  broad 
an  erudition.  They  were  too  clear  and  self-confident, 
too  able  in  their  knowledge  of  history  and  the  psychology 
of  human  endeavour.  They  possessed  a  brilliance  which 
went  beneath  the  surface,  a  logic  which  penetrated  to 
hidden  causes.  The  charge  of  ignorance  or  callowness 
could  not  be  brought  against  them.  They  were  rife  with 
learning,  with  an  understanding  of  ancient  and  modern 
philosophy.  And  they  were  written  with  a  scholarly  ex 
actness  and  a  sense  of  dictional  values  which  revealed 
deep  comprehension  of  the  mechanics  of  speech  and  lit 
erary  form.  On  their  physical  and  academic  side  there 
was  no  foothold  for  refutation.  As  a  consequence  they 
were  approached  from  the  angle  of  their  immorality  and 
perversion. 

West  was  not  displeased  with  their  reception.  At  all 
events  he  had  been  given  a  serious  hearing.  The  very 
venom  of  the  replies  indicated  a  respect  for  his  ability. 
The  battle  was  on,  and  his  head  was  high  with  the  con 
fidence  of  eventual  victory.  He  felt  stronger  because  of 
his  enemies.  His  spirits  rose  like  a  gigantic  wave  and 
bore  him  into  the  future.  His  eyes  sparkled  with  the 
anticipation  of  stirring  conquests.  The  adventure  of  life 
stimulated  him  to  a  degree  he  had  not  previously  known. 
He  was  fired  with  a  new  virility — a  virility  born  of  strug 
gle  and  suffering,  which  is  the  sign  of  one's  great  love 
of  living.  Resolute  faith,  the  power  of  affirmation,  initi 
ative,  pride,  courage  and  fearlessness — these  would  be 
the  rewards  in  the  exercise  of  his  convictions.  The 
strength  of  great  striving  and  the  vitality  of  great  deeds, 
as  well  as  the  assurance  of  rare  and  vigorous  growth, 
lay  within  the  course  he  was  to  follow.  The  future  held 
in  store  for  him  a  life  of  beauty  and  plenitude,  of 
strength  and  exuberance. 

During  the  weeks  when  his  articles  were  appearing 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  217 

and  the  criticisms  against  him  were  being  launched,  West 
noticed  that  his  wife  was  more  silent  and  less  inclined 
to  gaiety  than  during  any  of  the  time  she  had  been  in 
London.  At  table  she  seemed  preoccupied.  When  she 
smiled  West  was  conscious  of  a  certain  effort  on  her 
part  to  participate  in  the  froth  of  their  trivial  inter 
course.  At  times  he  could  detect  a  sadness  in  her  eyes 
which  recalled  the  sombreness  of  his  mother  when  he 
had  rebelled  against  her  desires.  She  had  spoken  little 
of  his  articles;  but  he  did  not  ascribe  her  temporary 
lack  of  interest  to  any  material  outside  force,  for  she  had 
lost  much  enthusiasm  for  her  social  recreations  as  well. 
She  had  cancelled  several  engagements,  pleading  a  slight 
illness. 

West  paid  small  attention  to  her  indisposition.  He  re 
garded  it  as  a  passing  depression,  as  only  a  mood  per 
haps,  and  did  not  comment  upon  it.  Even  when  it  be 
came  obvious  that  something  was  weighing  on  her  mind 
and  robbing  her  of  her  spontaneity,  he  merely  treated  her 
with  unusual  tenderness  and  busied  himself  in  his  work. 
It  was  probably  some  intimate  memory  which  had  come 
back  to  her — some  atmosphere  of  the  past  which  a 
dream  had  revived;  and  he  decided  to  let  it  run  its 
course  and  fade  again  into  the  grave  from  which  it  had 
risen.  Were  it  of  any  moment  she  would  have  come  to 
him  voluntarily  and  sought  his  comfort,  he  argued ;  and 
so  the  days  went  by  without  his  demanding  to  know  the 
cause  of  her  despondency. 

But  one  day  shortly  after  the  last  of  his  articles  had 
appeared,  he  told  her  of  his  intention  to  elaborate  them 
for  book  publication.  She  did  not  answer  him,  but  he 
felt  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  looked  up.  On  her  face  was 
an  expression  of  sorrow  and  resignation — the  same  ex 
pression  he  had  surprised  there  to  a  lesser  degree  on 
other  recent  occasions.  In  that  moment  he  realized 
that  her  silent  melancholy  during  the  past  weeks  was  in 
some  way  associated  with  his  writings.  Up  to  that  time 


218  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

he  had  overlooked  her  possible  point  of  view  in  regard 
to  the  denunciations  which  had  been  heaped  upon  him. 
She  had  suffered  because  of  what  she  had  read  about  him 
— -that  was  it.  His  first  feeling  now  was  one  of  irrita 
tion  at  her  unwarrantable  sensitiveness;  but,  when  he 
thought  of  what  she  might  be  suffering,  his  irritation 
changed  to  a  mild  pity.  He  took  one  of  her  hands  in 
both  of  his. 

"Have  you  minded  what  has  been  said  of  me?"  he 
asked.  "What  difference  can  it  make  to  us?  It  is  only 
part  of  the  battle.  You  mustn't  take  such  matters  per 
sonally." 

She  was  silent  and  looked  away.  His  words  had  not 
touched  her;  and  West  knew  that  something  much 
deeper  than  he  had  imagined  had  brought  about  her 
sorrow. 

"Don't  you  want  to  tell  me  why  you're  unhappy  ?"  he 
asked  after  a  pause. 

She  turned  to  him  and  studied  him  closely  as  if  trying 
to  read  in  his  eyes  the  answer  to  an  enigma. 

"I  can't  explain  it  entirely,  dear,"  she  answered  in  a 
low,  distressed  voice.  "And  I  don't  want  to  interfere 
in  anything  you  do.  I  want  to  go  with  you  and  stand 
by  you  in  everything.  I  never  want  you  to  feel  that  I 
ever  tried  to  thwart  you.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  can't  adjust 
my  mind  to  seeing  the  wisdom — the  truth,  perhaps — of 
what  you  have  written.  ...  I'd  go  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  suffer  isolation  and  ostracism,  if  I  thought  it 
would  help  you  in  fulfilling  your  ideals.  .  .  .  But  I  want 
to  be  sure  that  you — deep  down  in  your  heart — are  sure 
of  yourself,  of  your  beliefs,  of  the  things  you  write." 

West,  for  the  first  time  since  his  marriage,  felt  the 
approach  of  the  hidden  tyranny  of  his  wife's  love.  As- 
sociatively  it  brought  back  certain  bitter  events  in  his 
boyhood  when  his  mother  had  reproved  him  gently  and 
lovingly  for  his  early  compositions. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  dear,"  Alice  West  con- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  219 

tinued.  "It's  because  I  love  you,  because  your  ambitions 
mean  so  much  to  me,  that  I  feel  as  I  do."  (How  like  his 
mother,  this  appeal  of  love  and  unselfishness!)  "No  one 
in  the  world  believes  in  you  as  deeply  and  wholly  as  I  do. 
No  one  recognizes  as  I  do  your  wonderful  gifts,  your 
wonderful  talent — the  promise  that's  in  you.  ...  I 
know  what  you  can  do — 'how  great  you  can  become. 
.  .  .  It's  not  a  foolish,  blind  belief,  but  a  knowledge  that 
nothing  can  ever  take  away  from  me.  Some  day  I'll  be 
so  proud  of  you,  so  happy  at  your  success,  when  the 
whole  world  will  honour  and  acclaim  you  .  .  .  when  my 
husband — my  little  boy — will  be  as  great  as  the  greatest." 
Her  words  gave  West  a  distinct  shock.  He  suddenly 
realized  that  they  were  the  first  definite  statement  of  her 
standard  of  worth.  They  were  the  first  revelation  he  had 
had  of  her  point  of  view.  He  remembered  now  that  all 
her  previous  talk  of  his  work  and  his  future  had  been  in 
general  terms.  She  had  never  given  concise  articulation 
to  the  criterion  by  which  she  judged  his  possibilities.  He 
had  been  in  a  darkened  room,  so  far  as  she  was  con 
cerned,  and  had  imagined  it  was  spacious,  with  walls 
which  stretched  to  infinite  distances.  But  her  words  now 
had  flooded  the  room  with  light,  and  its  dimensions  were 
meagre.  He  felt  an  atmosphere  of  suffocation  about 
him.  "As  great  as  the  greatest."  Her  standard,  after 
all,  was  the  world's  standard.  She  measured  his  future 
greatness  by  that  of  other  men  whose  works  she  knew, 
by  the  successful  academic  men  of  established  positions, 
the  world's  successes.  "When  the  whole  world  will  hon 
our  you  and  acclaim  you."  Greatness  to  her,  then,  meant 
recognition  by  conventional  leaders.  It  implied  accla 
mation  and  honour  by  the  educated.  It  was  the  great 
ness  of  compromise,  of  conservative  achievement.  The 
radical  and  the  new  had  no  place  in  her  conception  of  ex 
alted  attainment.  The  explorer  of  new  fields,  the  soli 
tary  experimenter,  the  adventurer  in  untrodden  regions, 
the  blazer  of  new  trails,  were  beyond  the  range  of  her 


220  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

appraisement.  She  did  not  penetrate  beyond  the  boun 
daries  of  the  every-day  cycle  of  life.  Materialism,  not 
idealism,  delimited  the  projection  of  her  mind.  The 
solidity  of  settled  value  was  the  foundation  of  her' ap 
preciations.  She  wanted  him  to  be  great  according  to 
her  interpretation  of  the  word;  and  that  interpreta 
tion  was  influenced  and  governed  by  prevailing  prece 
dent,  by  her  conception  of  power  which  at  bottom  was 
the  power  of  permanence.  She  had  no  other  standard 
of  judgment  save  that  of  the  life  she  knew.  The  very 
definition  of  the  adjectives  she  applied  to  him  were  gar 
nered  from  the  lexicon  of  realistic  existence. 

West  understood  the  hidden  psychology  of  her  words. 
He  understood  also  his  feeling  of  incompleteness  when 
he  had  imagined  her  supplanting  Seminoff.  He  was  not 
angered  at  her  so  much  as  he  was  discouraged.  Her  at 
titude  filled  him  with  hopelessness.  It  restricted  his  full 
freedom,  not  directly  and  palpably,  but  quietly  and  in 
sidiously,  like  a  blemish  in  the  blood.  She  loved  him  too 
much  to  make  him  unhappy  by  open  interference.  Had 
she  not  withheld  from  him  all  criticism  during  the  past 
weeks?  But  his  consciousness  of  her  opinions  would 
interfere  with  the  automatism  of  his  expression.  His 
love  for  her  would  ever  keep  that  consciousness  alive, 
and  arouse  his  sympathy  for  the  sorrow  his  writings 
were  sure  to  produce  in  her.  He  felt  he  would  never  suc 
cumb  to  the  limitations  of  her  judgments  and  apprecia 
tions;  but  nevertheless  his  life  seemed  to  have  been 
suddenly  invaded  by  a  powerful  detractory  force,  by  a 
tragedy  which  would  follow  him  throughout  all  his  re 
maining  years,  like  the  loss  of  a  limb,  or  blindness,  or  an 
incurable  disease. 

She  saw  the  look  of  distress  and  discontent  her  words 
had  caused  him  and  tried  to  arouse  him  to  a  realization 
of  the  justness  of  her  feelings. 

"Don't  you  see,  dear,"  she  went  on,  "that  everyone 
will  misjudge  you  for  openly  advocating  the  things  you 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  221 

do?  .  .  .  By  antagonizing  everyone  you  are  throwing 
away  your  chances  for  true  recognition.  You're  only 
making  enemies  for  yourself  by  deliberately  flying  in  the 
face  of  everything  the  world  holds  sacred.  .  .  .  Some 
day  you'll  regret  it — you're  so  young  now — and  then  it 
will  be  too  late.  .  .  .  You  can't  really  believe  all  the 
things  you  say,  but  the  world  does  not  understand  that. 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  using  your  splendid  talents 
to  injure  yourself.  I  don't  want  you  to  write  popular 
things — you  know  that.  There's  nothing  you  can't  do 
if  you  want  to  ...  but  you'll  never  know  how  it  hurts 
me  to  read  and  hear  the  things  that  are  said  about  you, 
knowing  as  I  do  that  they're  false  and  unjust.  Even 
some  of  the  people  we  know  have  expressed  their  re 
grets  to  me.  .  .  .  Dear,  I've  almost  been  ashamed  to 
meet  our  friends  lately — 'I'm  afraid  that  even  they  won't 
understand."  She  leaned  toward  him  tenderly.  "You 
know  I  haven't  a  wish  in  the  world  except  for  you.  I'll 
fight  with  you  right  to  the  end — and  I'll  understand 
everything,  for  I  know  that  some  day  you'll  be  great.  I 
want  you  to  do  the  things  you  are  best  fitted  for.  I'll 
never  dictate  to  you  or  urge  you  to  undertake  anything 
your  heart  is  not  in.  ...  Only  I  want  you  to  give  birth 
to  the  best  in  you.  ...  I  want  to  be  proud  of  you." 

West  kissed  her  and  went  to  his  study.  He  knew  that 
argument  was  useless.  He  could  never  justify  in  her 
eyes  the  future  he  had  outlined.  He  would  always  cause 
her  unhappiness,  but  he  hoped  her  love  would  be  large 
enough  to  rise  above  it.  Perhaps  some  day  she  would 
become  reconciled  to  the  things  he  was  to  fight  for.  She 
would  never  be  vindictive:  he  knew  that.  She  was 
broader  than  most  women.  Her  mind,  in  fact,  was 
frankly  unconventional  in  the  minor  matters  of  life.  She 
had  outgrown  any  religious  inclinations  she  might  have 
had  as  a  girl.  She  had  an  intuitively  intelligent  taste  for 
good  music  and  the  best  literature.  Even  her  moral  code 
was  unusually  tolerant.  Her  instincts  were  purely  f em- 


222  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

inine.  She  had  no  desire  to  invade  the  masculine  field 
of  action;  she  viewed  life  from  the  standpoint  of  her 
own  sex,  condoning  and  understanding  to  a  remarkable 
degree  the  standpoint  of  the  opposite  sex.  West  knew 
that  her  shortcomings  were  inherent  in  her  nature,  that 
in  her  criticisms  she  was  reflecting  the  highest  attributes 
of  the  negative  will.  His  disappointment  in  her  was  not 
personal.  He  did  not  resent  her  words  as  indicating  a 
deficit  in  her  alone.  His  antagonism  had  been  aroused, 
but  it  was  directed  against  life  itself,  against  the  conser 
vative  conspiracy  of  all  women.  His  mother,'  then  Irene 
Brenner,  later  Margaret  Moore,  and  now  his  wife — they 
had  all  been  participants  in  the  conspiracy.  And  they 
had  all  loved  him. 

He  turned  to  his  work  with  a  sense  of  greater  diffi 
culties  to  overcome,  with  a  knowledge  that  the  forces 
against  him  had  been  increased. 


XXII 

THE  next  two  years  of  his  life  were  barren  of  pro 
duction.  His  ideas  had  undergone  no  change,  but  a  hal 
cyon  passivity  had  settled  upon  his  spirits.  His  life  ran 
smoothly,  and  the  ease  of  his  uneventful  existence 
wrapped  him  round  so  completely  that  his  instinct  of 
revolt  was  for  the  moment  smothered.  Whenever  it 
came  to  a  choice  between  his  work  and  a  social  pleasure 
he  found  it  more  enjoyable  to  take  the  latter.  In  order 
to  exert  the  effort  necessary  to  write  he  needed  a  stimulus 
of  aspiration.  In  some  unaccountable  way  he  had  been 
robbed  of  incentive,  and  he  found  that  procrastination 
carried  with  it  no  qualms  of  conscience.  At  first  he  had 
worried  because  of  his  failure  to  experience  his  old  en 
thusiasm  for  self-expression.  As  the  empty  months 
slipped  by,  carrying  him  no  nearer  the  goal  to  which  he 
had  aspired,  the  panic  which  had  accompanied  the  first 
weeks  of  his  sterility  subsided  into  an  attitude  of  not 
entirely  unpleasant  resignation. 

He  had  enlarged  and  embellished  the  articles  which 
had  appeared  in  the  weekly  and  had  found  a  publisher 
for  them — a  little-known  house  which  specialized  in  rev 
olutionary  manuscripts  dealing  with  social  economics. 
The  book  had  not  sold  to  any  extent  and  had  been  met 
with  a  general  denunciation  not  unlike  that  called  forth 
by  its  first  serial  publication.  It  had  been  a  disagreeable 
event  for  West.  His  mother  had  written  him  a  long  de 
pressing  letter  telling  of  her  grief  at  reading  his  ideas, 
and  pleading  with  him,  for  his  own  sake  and  those  who 
loved  him,  to  curb  his  evil  doctrines  and  to  develop  the 
nobility  that  she  knew  was  in  him.  Her  reproaches 

223 


224  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

were  petulant  and  tinged  with  the  hopelessness  of  im 
potent  sorrow.  He  had  pained  her  deeply  and  shattered 
her  long  cherished  hopes  for  him.  For  many  months 
West  was  not  able  to  shake  off  the  effects  of  her  letter. 
The  tragedy  of  lost  faith  which  her  words  epitomized 
haunted  him  with  a  violence  born  of  the  intimate  mem 
ories  of  his  boyhood  and  the  ineradicable  affection  he 
held  for  the  greying  woman  whose  trust  and  love  were 
centred  in  him. 

His  wife  too  had  suffered.  He  awoke  one  night  to  find 
her  crying  softly.  He  attempted  to  comfort  her,  but 
her  sadness  was  too  deep  to  be  dispelled  by  words. 

"Oh,  dear  heart,"  she  had  answered,  clinging  to  him 
in  a  passion  of  maternal  tenderness,  "when  I  think  of 
what  you  could  do,  how  great  you  could  become,  my  heart 
breaks  to  see  you  destroying  yourself  and  throwing  away 
your  wonderful  gifts.  ...  If  I  didn't  love  you  with  a 
love  that  is  greater  than  anything  in  the  world,  I  wouldn't 
care.  ...  I'd  give  my  life,  here  to-night,  if  I  knew 
that  by  doing  it  it  would  bring  you  success  and  fulfil  my 
dream  of  you.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,  dear,  that  you  are 
only  fighting  a  losing  battle  against  all  the  things  that 
the  world  has  found  to  be  best  through  centuries  of  striv 
ing  and  experimenting?  ...  In  the  end  you'll  only  be 
a  castaway.  All  your  energy  will  be  gone,  and  the  great 
ness  and  respect  you  might  have  had  will  be  lost — • 
forever.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  want  to  help  you,  to  struggle  with 
you ;  and  when  the  day  comes — as  it  is  sure  to — 'I  want  to 
share  the  glory  with  you,  and  know  that  my  love  has 
helped  make  you  great." 

She  had  sobbed  and  clung  to  him  as  if  she  were  aware 
of  some  terrible  force  taking  him  from  her. 

During  the  weeks  that  had  followed  she  had  been  si 
lent  and  disconsolate.  There  had  been  no  anger  or  re 
proach  in  her  actions,  only  the  consuming  sorrow  of  one 
bereft.  Once  West  had  argued  with  her,  defending  his 
position  with  irritable  harshness.  The  only  effect  his 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  225 

words  had  was  to  make  her  tenderer  than  before  and  to 
intensify  her  grief.  Later  he  had  learned  that  some 
of  the  people  they  knew  had  criticized  him  in  her  pres 
ence,  and  that  she  had  been  deeply  wounded.  One  of 
the  two  intimate  friends  she  had  known  in  London  be 
fore  her  arrival  had  openly  assumed  toward  her  an  at 
titude  of  unwarrantable  formality  and  had  failed  to  in 
vite  them  to  a  dinner  to  which  formerly  they  would 
have  been  the  first  to  be  asked. 

West  could  understand  the  suffering  that  such  ac 
tions  caused  his  wife.  Though  she  said  nothing  to  him 
about  them,  lest  they  should  make  him  suffer  too,  he  read 
in  her  silences  the  effects  of  her  humiliation.  He  could 
not  escape  feeling  that  he  was  personally  culpable.  His 
protective  instinct  toward  women  was  too  strong  to  per 
mit  him  to  disregard  the  part  he  had  played  in  his  wife's 
mortification.  She  loved  and  trusted  him,  and  he  had 
injured  her.  He  felt  a  sudden  hot  sympathy  for  her, 
and  the  fact  that  she  had  not  accused  him  of  hurting 
her  made  him  all  the  more  gentle  in  his  regard  for  her. 
Her  innocence  of  his  real  aims,  her  lack  of  comprehen 
sion  of  his  motives,  and  her  unselfish  forgiveness  of  what 
she  considered  his  mistakes  touched  a  deep  current  of  his 
love  for  her.  His  antagonism  vanished.  In  his  heart 
he  became  her  ally  against  the  onslaughts  of  the  world 
of  people  she  lived  among.  Again  he  realized  that  he 
was  the  stronger,  that  her  inner  happiness,  as  well  as  her 
social  status,  depended  on  his  exerting  his  power.  Al 
though  abstractedly  he  resented  her  limited  understand 
ing  and  regretted  the  step  he  had  taken  in  marrying  her, 
an  impulse  of  loyalty  held  him  to  her  and  directed  his 
sympathies  in  her  behalf. 

The  paradox  of  the  situation  troubled  him.  The  bonds 
which  held  him  seemed  to  tighten  at  every  effort  he  made 
to  throw  them  off.  He  reasoned  the  matter  out  unemo 
tionally,  but  like  all  the  great  problems  of  life  it  appeared 
insolvable.  No  guilt  attached  to  his  wife.  Had  she 


226  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

loved  him  less,  had  she  been  less  ambitious  to  help  him 
and  share  in  his  evolution,  he  could  have  stepped  out  into 
the  open  and  been  free.  But  the  very  enormity  of  her 
love  was  what  rendered  him  helpless.  It  was  a  burden 
and  an  obligation  too  great  for  him  to  throw  off.  He  told 
himself,  however,  that  if  sacrifice  was  to  be  made  she 
must  make  it.  The  idea  of  altering  his  beliefs  to  meet 
the  demands  of  her  ideals  was  insupportable  to  him. 
That,  he  assured  himself,  he  would  never  do.  But  even 
this  resolution  left  him  uneasy.  It  brought  no  comfort 
or  assurance  of  ultimate  triumph. 

It  was  after  this  self-analysis  that  he  began  to  let  his 
work  drift.  In  his  mind  he  stood  firm  against  the  sub 
terraneous  influences  of  his  wife.  He  looked  upon  her 
with  eyes  in  whose  expression  were  both  ruthlessness  and 
determination.  He  pitied  her,  kissing  her  often  and  hold 
ing  her  for  long  periods  in  his  arms.  But  he  did  not 
concern  himself  with  the  effects  of  his  heart  upon  the 
work  which  awaited  him.  He  believed  he  had  divorced 
these  two  dominating  issues,  and  failed  to  trace  to  its 
true  cause  his  willingness  to  let  his  writings  go.  His 
inclination  to  inaction  he  attributed  to  the  recurrent 
mental  lethargy  which  had  always  characterized  his  in 
tellectual  activities.  The  influences  which  were  at  work 
on  him  were  too  subtle  and  illusive  to  be  classified. 

But  when  eighteen  months  had  passed  over  him  and 
brought  no  change  he  began  to  inquire  into  his  state.  In 
the  midst  of  his  conjectures  a  letter  from  Seminoff 
arrived. 

"A  respite  has  come  to  me,"  he  wrote,  "and  I  am  going 
to  Europe  for  a  few  weeks.  Can  we  be  together  part  of 
the  time  ?  I  fear  something  has  happened  to  you,  some 
thing  psychological.  Your  book  was  not  the  end.  You 
yourself,  even  with  your  urgent  enthusiasm,  could  not 
have  considered  it  in  the  light  of  a  realization.  It  was 
only  a  beginning.  It  promised  other  things.  But  two 
years  have  gone,  and  nothing  has  followed.  I  cannot 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  227 

believe  that  the  world  has  yet  dragged  you  down  to  its 
comfortable  level.  You  tell  me  you  are  at  work,  yet  you 
never  specify.  What  am  I  to  think?  Perhaps  I  under 
stand  in  a  measure  the  cause  of  your  inaction.  Once,  I 
remember,  I  jeopardized  our  friendship  by  warning  you 
against  certain  influences.  Will  you  forgive  me  if  I 
warn  you  again?  Do  you  demand  conventional  consid 
erations  from  me  ?  Life  holds  too  much  for  you  to  per 
mit  it  to  drain  you.  A  compromise  on  your  part  to  the 
urgings  of  love  would  be  criminal.  I  do  not  mean  a  delib 
erate  compromise.  You  are  too  strong  for  that.  I  refer 
to  the  unconscious  compromises  a  man  makes  when 
he  is  struck  with  a  sentimental  blindness.  The  only 
untoward  influences  I  fear  for  you  are  the  hidden,  in 
tractable  ones,  those  that  grip  a  man  with  such  soft  fingers 
that  he  does  not  feel  them.  Do  you  want  to  see  me?" 

West  was  partially  shaken  out  of  his  mental  coma  by 
SeminofFs  words.  His  wish  to  see  his  old  friend  was 
more  than  a  mere  desire.  It  was  a  need.  He  had  floated 
out  on  the  sea  of  indifference  in  a  fog  of  spurious  con 
tentment.  The  distance  he  had  drifted  frightened  him. 
Seminoff  had  brought  him  to  a  realization  of  his  predica 
ment.  In  order  to  return  to  land  the  assistance  of  Semi 
noff  was  necessary.  He  wrote  at  once:  "Your  letter 
has  startled  me.  For  over  a  year  I  have  been  deceiving 
myself.  I  alone  am  to  blame  for  my  unproductiveness. 
I  have  been  held  a  prisoner  without  knowing  it.  Your 
letter  has  called  to  my  mind  things  I  have  deliberately 
ignored,  despite  the  fact  that  I  have  known  all  along  of 
the  persistent  presence  of  the  influences  you  refer  to. 
But  the  matter  is  subtler  than  you  imagine,  more  dia 
bolical,  perhaps,  than  anyone  can  imagine  who  has  not 
come  into  direct  contact  with  it.  Strangulation  by  an 
enemy  is  one  thing;  but  when  the  shackles  are  adjusted 
through  innocence  and  love,  through  a  passionate  desire 
to  benefit  you,  strangulation  becomes  an  act  of  fate 
against  which  the  individual  is  rendered  powerless  by 


228  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

fundamental  instincts  of  chivalry  and  pity.  Life  gives 
a  man  no  weapons  with  which  to  combat  such  forces. 
Life  makes  us  cowards  and  then  confronts  us  with  con 
ditions  with  which  only  heroism  and  courage  can  cope. 
All  this  sounds  like  platitude,  yet  the  vigour  of  the 
inevitability  of  actions  is  colossal.  I  realize  that  much 
has  been  taken  from  me  beginning  with  my  earliest  boy 
hood — time,  courage,  strength,  vitality,  opportunity,  am 
bition,  freedom,  a  little  hope  perhaps.  I  am  thirty,  and 
I  have  taken  no  hostages  from  life.  I  have  nothing  to 
show  for  my  years  of  struggle  and  study — only  a  handful 
of  intentions,  a  few  ineffectual  spurts  toward  the  goal  I 
had  set.  There  has  been  no  progress,  no  upward  soaring. 
There  have  been  times  when  I  have  bent  the  bars  of  my 
cage,  but  I  could  never  hold  them  apart  for  a  sufficient 
length  of  time  to  escape.  .  .  .  You  see  I  am  honest  with 
myself  at  last.  You  have  made  me  so  by  awakening  me. 
I  shall  wait  with  eagerness  for  your  coming." 

When  Seminoff  came  they  went  alone  into  northern 
England.  West  longed  for  the  silent  places,  the  kindly 
stretches  of  the  moors,  the  clean  air  of  the  country.  For 
two  weeks  he  was  in  a  state  of  psychic  convalescence. 
The  prod  of  old  ambitions  urged  him.  He  had  carried 
with  him  the  notes  and  outlines  for  work  he  had  made 
when  he  had  first  come  to  London.  In  deserted  country 
inns  the  two  friends  sat  together,  arranging  and  plan 
ning.  They  organized  a  book  which  West  was  to  begin 
work  on  at  once.  They  talked  frankly  to  each  other. 
West,  because  his  percipience  of  his  domestic  conditions 
was  new,  confided  to  Seminoff  without  stint,  for  in  his 
confidences  he  was  explaining  many  things  to  himself 
also. 

West  returned  to  London  stimulated  and  renewed. 
He  had  no  thought  or  ambition  save  for  the  book  he  was 
to  write.  It  was  to  be  the  first  of  many  volumes,  an 
elaborate  introduction  to  an  extended  work  setting  forth 
a  complete  philosophy  of  aesthetic  culture.  It  would 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  229 

make  a  comparative  study  of  all  modern  and  ancient  in 
stitutions.  He  worked  long  and  laboriously.  He  was 
careful  not  to  omit  any  points  he  was  to  develop  later  in 
the  main  body  of  his  work.  His  earlier  book  was  only 
a  tentative  statement  of  his  beliefs.  His  new  one  would 
be  more  complete,  firmer  in  its  attitude,  wider  in  scope, 
more  intrepid  as  to  utterance,  indicative  of  a  more  posi 
tive  egoism.  It  was  sure  to  be  met  with  greater  denuncia 
tion  than  his  former  book.  The  antagonism  would  be 
fiercer.  It  would  hurt  his  wife  more;  but  he  was  pre 
pared  for  that :  Seminoff's  arguments  had  fortified  him 
against  the  influences  of  both  his  wife  and  his  mother. 
One  division  of  his  new  book  in  particular  would  lacerate 
them  irreparably — a  division  treating  of  the  psychology 
of  sex,  of  the  place  of  woman  in  the  world's  moral  and 
intellectual  activities.  But  he  had  determined  on  his 
course. 

The  book  appeared  the  following  year.  West  kept  the 
manuscript  from  his  wife.  It  was  the  first  time  since  his 
marriage  that  he  had  not  shared  his  work  with  her  during 
its  development.  She  was  saddened  somewhat  by  his 
aloofness,  but  did  not  complain.  She  gave  up  many 
pleasures  and  invited  people  only  at  infrequent  intervals 
to  the  house  during  the  process  of  his  writing  it.  She 
avoided  all  subjects  she  thought  might  irritate  or  annoy 
him,  and  moulded  her  life  to  fit  his  whims.  Several  times 
she  expressed  an  interest  in  the  nature  of  the  work  he 
was  doing,  but  when  he  seemed  disinclined  to  discuss  the 
matter  she  did  not  press  the  point.  West  noted  the 
sacrifices  she  was  making  which  were  without  even  the 
compensation  of  enlightenment,  and  could  not  exempt 
himself  from  a  feeling  of  guilt.  She  was  aiding  him  to 
complete  a  book  he  knew  would  cause  her  suffering,  and 
there  were  times  when  he  looked  at  her  with  the  con 
sciousness  of  treachery.  His  sorrow  for  her  pained 
him  immeasurably,  but  he  fought  his  grief  with  the  mem 
ory  of  Seminoff's  admonitions,  and  plunged  forward 


230  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

with  the  brutal  recklessness  of  a  long-dormant  passion 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  aroused. 

The  extent  of  the  storm  which  broke  on  the  issuance 
of  his  work  was  greater  than  he  had  contemplated.  The 
distress  and  suffering  of  Alice  West  overran  the  bounds 
of  his  previous  imaginings.  No  doubt  she  had  expected 
something  entirely  different.  His  two  years  of  unfertile 
rest  had  given  her  hope  that  he  had  been  weaned  away 
from  his  earlier  beliefs.  The  public  animadversions  had 
not  astonished  him,  but  the  book's  effect  on  his  private 
life  affected  him  deeply.  He  knew  that  had  he  been  alone 
and  independent  he  would  not  have  cared;  but  when  he 
saw  the  pitiable  wreckage  his  doctrines  had  brought  upon 
his  wife  and  home,  he  was  angered  at  Seminoff  for  hav 
ing  spurred  him  on  to  his  present  action.  This  anger  was 
a  transient  emotion,  however,  produced  by  Alice  West's 
tragic  misery ;  and  almost  at  once  it  expanded  into  a  fiery 
hatred  of  the  conditions  under  which  he  lived. 

A  week  after  the  book  had  been  circulated  he  and  his 
wife  had  been  practically  ostracized.  Alice  West's  most 
intimate  friends  had  turned  away  from  her,  following 
the  lead  of  others  whose  opinions  they  feared.  She 
wept  bitterly.  The  blow  had  come  without  warning. 
Even  those  of  her  friends  who  still  called  had  changed 
greatly  toward  her.  The  withdrawal  of  the  majority  of 
her  acquaintances  had  little  effect  on  West  personally. 
These  friends  he  looked  upon  largely  from  the  standpoint 
of  his  wife's  pleasure.  He  had  tolerated  and  encour 
aged  them  because  he  realized  the  necessity  of  social  in 
terests  for  her.  They  meant  nothing  to  him  intellectually, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  his  wife  they  would  have  had  no 
place  in  his  life.  Her  point  of  view  was  different.  They 
were  intimate  parts  of  the  world  in  which  she  lived. 
From  them  was  to  come  indirectly  the  rewards  of  her 
love :  she  counted  on  their  admiration  and  respect  for  the 
great  things  her  husband  was  to  do  some  day. 

Alice  West  for  the  first  time  during  their  relationship 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  231 

displayed  bitterness.  To  her  it  seemed  that  the  founda 
tion  had  been  knocked  from  under  their  whole  existence. 
The  home  she  had  carefully  and  lovingly  built  up  during 
her  five  years  in  London  had  toppled  about  her.  Her 
handiwork  had  been  wantonly  destroyed.  Her  sorrow 
for  the  moment  became  sullen.  West  shut  himself  in  his 
study,  but  was  unable  to  work.  He  went  out  alone  and 
sat  for  hours  in  crowded  cafes,  trying  to  untangle  the 
snarled  and  twisted  factors  of  his  situation.  But  the 
vision  of  his  wife  sitting  alone  in  her  home,  deserted 
by  the  people  for  whom  she  cared,  filled  him  with  such 
despair  that  his  solitary  excursions  left  him  with  a  heavier 
discouragement  than  if  he  had  remained  at  her  side. 

"What  have  you  gained,  Stanford,  by  the  disgrace  you 
have  brought  on  us  ?"  she  asked  him  one  night,  when  the 
tide  of  her  humiliation  had  partially  subsided.  "If  it  was 
for  your  good  that  I  should  be  made  to  suffer  this  way, 
to  have  people  talking  behind  my  back,  to  know  they  were 
smiling  at  me  pityingly,  I  wouldn't  say  a  word.  The 
things  you  write  of  women  and  morality  reflect  on  me. 
Of  course,  they  take  it  all  personally.  They  think  you 
don't  respect  me.  .  .  .  And  they  look  upon  you  as  a  cad. 
I  have  actually  overheard  them  use  the  word  in  referring 
to  you.  Oh,  the  shame  of  it  all!  .  .  .  And  it's  not  as  if 
you  believed  the  things  you  write — 110  decent  man  could. 
But  people  don't  know  that  there  are  finer  things  in  you. 
They  believe  only  the  worst.  And  you  write  nothing 
to  disabuse  them.  .  .  .  Your  books  may  represent  one 
kind  of  greatness,  but  it's  not  the  highest  type.  There 
are  great  men  living  to-day  who  would  not  dream  of 
sacrificing  those  who  loved  them  to  their  own  ends.  And 
yet  they  stand  at  the  top,  and  are  happy ;  and  those  who 
love  them  are  happy,  too." 

West  asked  her  to  specify  the  men  to  whom  she  re 
ferred,  hoping  to  arrive  at  a  closer  understanding  of  her 
viewpoint.  She  named  three  or  four  of  the  most  noted 
contemporary  academicians,  one  an  English  novelist  of 


232  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

high  standing,  one  a  European  dramatist  who  was  father 
ing  the  modern  school  of  realism,  one  a  member  of  the 
French  Academy.  Unquestionably  they  represented  the 
height  that  conservative  creation  had  reached  at  the  pres 
ent  day.  But  they  were  men  whose  opinions  did  not  of 
fend  the  current  standards  of  thought.  From  the  con 
ventional  standpoint  they  were  great.  The  highest  trib 
utes  were  being  paid  them.  But  they  were  not  explorers 
in  knowledge;  they  were  not  men  of  fearless  and  orig 
inal  ideas. 

West  attempted  to  belittle  their  achievements,  to  de 
scribe  a  standard  of  greatness  which  was  beyond  them, 
but  was  halted  in  the  midst  of  his  remarks  by  the  look 
in  his  wife's  eyes.  His  words  had  frightened  her.  At 
length  she  spoke. 

"Doesn't  the  opinion  of  the  better  class  of  educated 
people  mean  anything  to  you?  Is  ostracism  and  neglect 
the  test  of  true  greatness?"  Her  words  were  not  meant 
as  inquiries  but  as  a  rebuke. 

West  sensed  the  significance  of  her  questions  and 
said  merely:  "There  are  many  standards  of  greatness. 
I'd  rather  die  in  want  and  exile  and  know  I  had  done 
something  new  and  worth  while,  than  to  receive  all  the 
benefits  and  emoluments  of  the  world  for  something  I 
didn't  believe  in." 

She  smiled  with  bitterness  and  unbelief.  His  words 
struck  her  as  an  insincere  and  quixotic  mental  gesture. 

"My  standard  of  greatness,"  she  replied,  "is  the  one 
recognized  by  the  world.  It  isn't  necessary  for  any 
one  to  fly  in  the  face  of  life's  finest  ideals  in  order  to 
become  known.  Your  path  leads  to  unpleasant  notoriety, 
not  genuine  fame." 

He  went  to  his  desk  and  brought  forth  several  let 
ters  that  the  Continental  leaders  of  unpopular  thought 
had  written  him  at  the  time  his  book  appeared.  These 
men  were  the  independent  critics  who  would  have  repudi 
ated  the  offer  of  academic  honours.  But  their  names 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  233 

were  known  to  the  few,  and  their  influence  was  being 
felt  despite  the  public  rejection  of  their  doctrines.  They 
were  lonely  workers,  those  in  whom  the  creative  instinct 
was  a  sacred  and  exalted  thing,  the  serious  and  solitary 
men  whose  insatiability  made  of  them  adventurers  in 
untrodden  fields.  Their  letters  to  West  had  been  gener 
ous.  Two  of  them  admitted  frankly  they  could  not  fol 
low  all  the  conclusions  of  his  work,  but  that  they  appre 
ciated  his  aims  and  the  new  breath  which  arose  from  his 
radicalism.  All  expressed  interest  in  the  books  which 
were  to  follow. 

Alice  West  read  the  letters  without  emotion.  Their 
only  effect  on  her  was  to  substantiate  her  former  views. 

"These  are  not  the  world's  great  men,"  she  answered 
sadly.  "They  are  the  free-thinkers  who  have  been  set 
aside  by  the  world.  Their  names  will  die  with  their  bodies, 
like  thousands  before  them.  They  are  the  dissenters,  the 
men  who  have  gone  astray  through  some  deep  perversion. 
Their  talent  and  brilliancy  are  all  that  keep  them  alive. 
They  are  dishonoured — and  you  know  it  well.  They 
have  never  been  recognized  by  the  truly  great  men. 
There  is  no  great  university  in  the  world  where  their 
works  are  read.  Have  any  of  their  books  been  decorated  ? 
Does  any  one  of  these  men  hold  a  responsible  position? 
.  .  .  Why  can't  you  see  and  understand  these  things?" 

West  did  not  reply.  There  was  no  convincing  his  wife. 
He  could  never  open  her  eyes  to  the  vision  which  con 
fronted  him.  She  was  not  a  unit  whom  he  could  per 
suade.  She  was  the  mouthpiece  of  the  world,  the  epitome 
of  the  world's  ideals,  the  symbol  of  the  civilization  of  her 
age.  In  her  was  no  past,  no  future.  She  personified  the 
present,  and  beneath  and  beyond  it  she  could  not  see. 
Her  ideals  were  the  reflection  of  practicality :  her  func 
tion  was  that  of  the  conservator.  Her  whole  instinct  was 
the  outgrowth  of  immediacy. 

"After  all,  does  it  pay,  dear?"  she  went  on  in  a  softer 
voice.  "Aren't  your  peace  and  happiness  worth  anything 


234  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

to  you?  .  .  .  And  what  of  me?  Is  the  pleasure  you  get 
out  of  writing  a  few  violent  and  immoral  books  worth 
ruining  my  life  for?  Don't  you  see  that  our  lives  are 
bound  up  together,  that  all  of  the  scorn  and  hate  the  world 
vents  on  you  falls  on  me  in  equal  measure?" 

She  looked  at  him  appealingly,  and  her  tone,  despite 
its  gentleness,  was  fraught  with  the  intensity  of  one  im 
ploring  for  life.  Again  West's  love  for  his  wife  became 
a  powerful  weapon  in  her  hands.  Her  appeal  moved  him, 
for  he  could  not  deny  the  truth  of  her  words.  His  pres 
ent  course  would  mean  her  defeat  and  destruction.  It 
would  saddle  her  with  a  load  of  shame  which  she  would 
ever  look  upon  as  a  wilful  injustice.  An  emotional  power 
greater  than  the  cold  steel  of  his  will  was  undermining 
his  strength.  A  current  of  sentiment  was  resisting  all 
his  mental  efforts  to  swim  against  it. 

"Why  aren't  you  willing  to  choose  that  greatness  which 
will  make  me  happy?"  Alice  West  was  saying.  "Think 
of  the  rewards  that  might  be  yours,  the  triumphs  and  the 
glories  of  success!  .  .  .  What  you  are  trying  to  do  is 
so  futile.  It  leads  nowhere.  Your  only  rewards  will  be 
disgrace  and  contempt.  Think  of  the  thousands  of  men 
who  have  been  ruined  and  gone  down  into  the  bitterest 
oblivion  by  trying  to  fight  the  whole  social  order.  .  .  . 
Their  names  are  unknown.  They  are  the  failures.  .  .  . 
What  good  has  all  their  struggling  and  suffering 
amounted  to?  .  .  .  You,  dear,  could  become  a  great 
influence  for  good,  so  that  great  men  would  write  about 
you  and  admire  you.  .  .  .  To  what  great  purpose  would 
you  sacrifice  yourself  and  me?  What  would  be  the  use 
of  it?  What  would  you  gain ?" 

The  futility  of  high  ideals  had  always  haunted  West. 
The  questions  his  wife  had  just  asked  him  were  questions 
for  which  he,  in  his  moments  of  depression,  had  often 
sought  to  find  an  answer.  Logically  they  could  not  be 
answered.  His  instincts  alone  had  disposed  of  them  and 
urged  him  on.  But  now  there  were  counter-instincts  at 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  235 

work,  and  the  fact  that  there  was  no  logic  to  guide  him 
took  on  a  new  importance.  After  all,  what  was  the  use 
of  this  ceaseless  effort  toward  unattainable  goals?  Was 
it  not  the  wiser  course  to  seek  the  rewards  which  the 
world  would  give?  Perhaps,  even,  he  could  compromise 
in  such  a  way  that  he  need  not  be  untrue  to  himself. 
Was  not  all  life,  in  the  final  analysis,  a  series  of  necessary 
compromises  ? 


XXIII 

DURING  the  following  year  the  seed  of  the  idea  of 
futility  sown  in  West's  mind  by  his  wife  grew  into  a 
conviction.  Its  fertilizing  field  was  despondency  and 
discouragement.  He  had  little  strength  with  which  to 
combat  the  comfortable  persuasiveness  of  the  idea.  He 
found  a  decided  serenity  in  adjusting  his  mind  to  Alice 
West's  point  of  view.  The  task  he  had  formerly  set  for 
himself  was  large  enough  to  tax  the  full  complement  of 
his  resources,  and  even  at  best  a  certain  scepticism  com 
panioned  his  efforts :  but  when  such  tremendous  obsta 
cles  as  love,  duty  and  loyalty  barred  the  way  to  final 
achievement,  his  course  appeared  insurmountably  diffi 
cult.  His  own  scepticism  increased,  for  the  possible  re 
sults  of  his  adhering  to  his  original  plan  seemed  far 
inadequate  to  compensate  for  the  price  he  would  have  to 
pay  for  them.  It  was  not  hard  for  him  to  convince 
himself  that  a  course  of  compromise  was  advisable.  Too 
many  subtle  and  powerful  influences  were  at  work  for 
him  to  cling  to  his  early  resolution.  It  was  not  a  case 
of  deliberate  compromise  indulged  in  at  the  cost  of  dis 
gust  and  revulsion  of  self.  It  was  a  gradual  alteration 
of  his  viewpoint,  a  slow  and  radical  metamorphosis 
from  contemptuous  daring  to  the  smooth  and  easy  dalli 
ance  of  a  mind  from  which  youth  and  courage  have  been 
driven  out  by  bitter  and  deadening  experiences. 

He  turned  to  fiction — a  medium  not  entirely  new 
and  uncongenial  to  him.  In  his  youth  he  had  felt  and 

fiven  way  to  the  fictional  impulse.     It  afforded  him  a 
eld  in  which  his  creative  faculties  might  have  full  sway, 
and  in  which  he  was  relieved  of  the  necessity  of  setting 

236 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  237 

forth  his  revolutionary  doctrines.  At  the  University  he 
had  begun  a  novel.  That  was  before  his  philosophy  had 
taken  form.  And  now  he  took  out  the  unfinished  manu 
script,  keyed  himself  up  to  its  theme,  rewrote  the  parts 
he  had  set  down,  and  carried  his  scenario  to  completion. 
He  had  studied  critically  the  masters  of  this  type  of 
composition,  and  his  instinct  for  form  and  organization 
guided  him  surely  in  his  task.  His  insight  into  life  was 
deep.  He  understood  people  and  the  actions  and  reac 
tions  of  human  intercourse;  and  the  vision  of  the  world 
of  his  day  was  impersonally  accurate.  He  described  the 
life  he  knew,  plunging  into  its  hidden  causes  and  analys 
ing  its  motives.  His  book  was  neither  sentimental  nor 
didactic.  It  was  an  interesting  and  profound  exposition 
of  the  currents  and  cross-currents  of  human  existence; 
and,  because  he  knew  his  people  as  they  were  beneath 
the  surface,  he  described  them  with  a  sympathy  which 
made  them  live.  He  became  interested  in  this  new  work 
and  wrote  with  extreme  care,  yet  with  nervous  enthusi 
asm. 

The  book  was  well  received.  It  was  too  serious  a 
work,  however,  to  find  anything  approaching  a  popular 
market.  But,  as  his  publisher  described  it,  it  was  an 
"artistic  success."  The  better-class  reader  bought  it 
and  admired  it.  The  more  scholarly  critics  praised  it 
frankly,  and  the  very  novelist  whom  Alice  West  had 
mentioned  as  representing  greatness,  wrote  West  a  per 
sonal  letter  of  commendation.  In  the  general  enthusi 
asm  for  this  new  book  his  earlier  works  were  forgotten. 
Two  critics  suggested  without  rancour  that  maturity  had 
cured  him  of  his  adolescent  heterodoxy.  He  was  ac 
cepted  as  a  novelist  who  would  bear  the  closest  watching. 
Great  achievements  were  predicted  for  his  future.  He 
was  the  centre  of  an  influx  of  beneficent  admiration. 
Several  publishers  wrote  him  requesting  to  publish  his 
next  book.  Already  he  tasted  the  honours  of  a  worldly 
success. 


23  8  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

These  people  who  had  formerly  looked  askance  at  him 
because  of  his  early  published  moralities  began  to  drift 
back  into  his  life.  New  friends  found  their  way  into  his 
wife's  circle.  Alice  West  herself  was  radiantly  happy. 
She  had  blossomed  forth  from  her  year's  sorrow  into 
a  vivid  state  of  animation  which  to  West  seemed  to 
surpass  even  her  former  good  spirits.  He  himself, 
though,  was  not  entirely  content.  His  recognition  did 
not  bring  him  a  sense  of  complete  satisfaction.  Some 
thing  within  him  remained  ungratified.  His  old  desire 
had  not  been  driven  out,  and  when  he  thought  of  the  con 
cessions  he  had  been  led  to  make  to  the  demands  of 
the  exterior  factors  in  his  life,  he  experienced  the  shame 
of  an  evasive  and  incomprehensible  guilt.  The  feeling 
was  not  excessive  and  assailed  him  only  sporadically. 
And  there  were  many  things  which  compensated  for  it. 
His  vanity  was  assuaged  by  the  encomiums  he  read  of 
himself.  The  men  who  acclaimed  his  work  stood  for  the 
highest  in  current  criticism,  and  the  deference  of  his 
social  friends  and  those  of  his  wife  created  about  him  an 
atmosphere  conducive  to  mild  mental  exaltation.  But  he 
suffered  nevertheless.  He  had  sent  a  copy  of  the  book 
to  Seminofr",  and  had  received  only  the  barest  acknowl 
edgement  of  its  arrival.  His  friend's  silence  did  not 
astonish  him,  but  as  the  weeks  went  by  that  silence  be 
came  an  accusation  from  which  he  could  not  free  him 
self. 

One  night  remorse  took  hold  of  him.  He  had  lapsed 
for  the  moment  into  the  body  of  his  former  self.  His 
old  ambitions  and  desires  leapt  from  out  the  past  and 
surged  through  him.  The  tawdriness  of  his  present 
success  became  painfully  evident.  It  was  not  the  active 
remorse  which  dictates  a  change  of  action,  but  the  hope 
less  remorse  which  might  come  to  a  man  in  prison  when 
there  was  no  chance  of  reprieve.  He  went  to  his  study 
early,  and  mechanically  took  out  the  outline  for  the  books 
he  had  planned  during  Seminoff's  visit  to  England.  He 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  239 

had  no  definite  object  in  view.  He  knew  instinctively  he 
would  not  complete  them  now.  Yet  he  was  drawn  to 
them  by  a  sort  of  morbid  fascination.  He  began  to 
reconstruct  his  life  mentally  as  it  might  have  been  had 
he  not  married  Alice  Carlisle.  This  indulgence  was  an 
unpleasant  one,  but  the  very  pain  of  it  attracted  him. 
Before  he  had  finished  he  found  himself  hoping  that 
something  might  happen  to  open  once  more  the  door  of 
his  desires.  Even  now,  in  the  midst  of  his  resignation, 
he  could  not  escape  the  feeling  that  destiny  held  in  store 
for  him  the  things  for  which  his  soul  craved. 

As  he  sat  borne  far  away  on  the  tide  of  his  dreams, 
Alice  West  entered  softly.  It  was  unusual  for  his  wife 
to  come  to  his  study.  From  the  day  of  their  marriage 
she  had  respected  his  seclusion  in  this  one  room.  Never 
had  she  disturbed  him  except  on  matters  of  urgent  im 
portance.  He  glanced  at  her  sharply,  fearing  trouble, 
but  her  eyes  were  brilliant,  and  a  look  of  contentment  and 
happiness  lighted  her  face. 

"Dear  heart/'  she  began,  when  she  had  seated  herself 
close  to  him,  "put  aside  your  work  for  a  little  while.  I'm 
too  happy  to  be  alone.  ...  I  want  to  talk  to  you — to 
tell  you  something.  ...  I  thought  the  people  would 
never  go  to-night,  and  when  they  did  you  had  shut  your 
self  up  here.  ...  I  waited  as  long  as  I  could — then  I 
had  to  come  to  you." 

He  took  her  hand  tenderly  and  waited. 

"Do  you  know  how  proud  I  am  of  you — how  happy 
you  have  made  me  ?"  It  was  not  a  query,  but  an  exultant 
statement  of  her  joy.  "My  faith  wasn't  misplaced.  I've 
always  dreamed  of  just  such  days  as  these.  ...  I  knew 
— my  heart  told  me — tharyou  could  be  great — that  you 
could  make  the  world  pay  you  honour.  And  to  think 
you've  only  begun, — your  whole  life  is  before  you.  Not 
even  these  people  realize  how  truly  great  you'll  be  some 
day.  .  .  .  Aren't  you  happy,  too,  dear?" 

West  smiled  faintly.     His  wife's  happiness   for  the 


24o  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

moment  seemed  almost  sufficient  compensation  for  what 
he  had  given  up. 

"Of  course,  I'm  happy.  I'd  be  happy — no  matter  what 
I'd  done — just  because  you're  so  happy."  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  the  world  beyond  her 
became  insignificant. 

She  lay  close  to  him  and  laughed  softly.  After  a 
rapturous  silence  she  said:  "But  all  that  isn't  what  I 
came  to  tell  you.  I'm  happier  even  than  I  ever  thought 
I  could  be.  Next  year — Oh,  dear  heart,  to  think  that 
these  two  great  joys  should  come  to  me  at  once! — next 
year,  it  won't  be  only  you  and  I  alone." 

That  night,  after  his  wife  had  retired,  West  sat  far 
into  the  night.  After  the  first  year  of  his  marriage  the 
possibilities  of  fatherhood  had  not  entered  his  calcula 
tions.  Nor  had  the  subject  ever  been  mentioned  between 
them.  His  wife's  confession  of  her  condition  had  sud 
denly  opened  up  a  new  vista  of  conditions.  At  first  her 
words  had  not  affected  him  emotionally.  They  had  pro 
duced  in  him  neither  pleasure  nor  regret.  They  had 
only  startled  him,  like  the  news  of  some  momentous  event 
which  was  outside  the  boundaries  of  his  life.  Only  when 
she  had  left  him  did  he  begin  to  speculate  on  the  conse 
quences  of  the  forthcoming  event. 

His  paternal  instinct  fought  with  his  ambitions.  He 
felt  that  the  last  avenue  of  escape  had  finally  been 
closed.  Subconsciously  he  had  counted  on  reinstating 
himself  in  the  small  intellectual  world  he  had  abandoned 
by  writing  his  novel.  The  hope  of  going  on  with  his 
other  books  had  always  remained  with  him,  vague  and 
inarticulate;  but  it  had  influenced  his  willingness  to 
accept  his  present  conditions.  He  had  lied  to  himself — • 
that  fact  was  evident  to  him  in  the  face  of  this  new  cir 
cumstance.  But  now  even  that  unuttered  hope  was  dis 
pelled,  and  a  depression  settled  upon  him  as  he  speculated 
on  his  future.  The  submerged  feeling  that  he  might 
on  some  later  day  shake  off  the  bonds  of  conventional 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  241 

compliance,  rose  vividly  into  the  uppermost  stratum  of 
his  consciousness,  but  was  at  once  snuffed  out.  He  was 
left  in  a  state  of  hopeless  and  disquieting  dejection. 
There  was  no  chance  of  throwing  off  this  new  bond.  It 
would  become  stronger  as  the  years  passed,  and  it  would 
outlive  him.  The  world-old  antagonism  between  youth 
and  age  entered  his  heart.  The  tyranny  of  the  new  gen 
eration  approached.  And  the  ties  which  bound  him  to  his 
wife  had  been  strengthened  by  her  pregnancy. 

West  did  not  try  to  fight  against  his  fate.  Now,  less 
than  ever,  was  he  prepared  to  resist  the  love  and  hopes 
of  his  wife.  A  new  love  had  entered  his  life,  and  its 
essence  was  tenderness.  The  following  year  his  second 
novel  appeared.  According  to  the  wishes  of  his  wife  the 
book  was  officially  issued  on  the  day  his  daughter  was 
born. 

"It  was  your  gift  to  her,  dear/'  Alice  West  had  said, 
as  he  knelt  beside  her,  watching  with  strange  and  tender 
interest  the  new-born  child.  "When  she  is  old  enough 
to  read  it  how  happy  she  will  be — and  proud!"  She 
smiled  weakly.  "And  to  think  she  doesn't  know  what 
a  wonderful  father  she  has !" 

The  book  deviated  but  slightly  from  the  conception 
of  his  first  novel.  Its  execution,  however,  was  surer.  The 
minor  flaws  of  his  previous  work  were  here  eliminated. 
Again  the  critics  rallied  to  his  support,  praising  him  in 
their  eagerness  to  justify  their  predictions  of  the  preced 
ing  year.  The  sales  of  this  new  book  were  larger  than 
before.  It  was  more  generally  talked  of.  It  called  forth 
eulogy  from  the  highest  critical  sources.  This  second 
performance  made  secure  his  place  in  current  letters. 
His  name  was  already  being  reckoned  among  the  eminent 
figures  of  contemporary  literature. 

At  first  the  praise  had  left  West  cold,  but  the  private 
and  public  honours  showed  him  gave  him  a  feeling  of 
worldly  power  and  importance,  which,  though  at  first  it 
had  been  merely  agreeable,  had  later  become  desirable. 


242  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

However,  he  was  not  entirely  free  from  his  own  desires 
to  write  other  things.  He  still  felt  that  under  propitious 
circumstances  he  might  attain  to  higher  and  lonelier 
achievements,  although  the  probability  of  reaching  such  a 
goal  was  lessening  day  by  day. 


XXIV 

AT  this  time  West  received  news  of  his  father's  sud 
den  death,  and  a  request  that  he  return  at  once  to  Green 
wood  to  assist  his  mother  in  straightening  the  affairs 
arising  from  the  tragedy. 

A  week  at  sea  revived  his  old  aspirations.  Free  from 
the  directing  agencies  of  his  home,  he  looked  upon  him 
self  with  perspective.  His  self-deception  fell  from  him, 
and  he  reviewed  his  past  life  with  critical  impartiality. 
He  realized  he  had  failed  in  carrying  out  the  purposes 
of  his  youth,  and  he  realized,  too,  that  he  had  condoned 
his  failure.  When  he  arrived  in  America  he  was  sick 
ened  and  distraught.  Seminoff  met  him  at  the  pier,  and 
West's  remorse  and  shame  were  such  that  he  scarcely 
spoke  to  his  friend.  The  other  recognized  his  distress 
and  spoke  only  of  trivial  things.  Together  they  went 
to  Greenwood. 

West  was  shocked  at  his  mother's  appearance.  The 
years  had  aged  her  greatly.  Her  hair  was  almost  white, 
and  her  recent  sorrow  had  deepened  the  lines  in  her 
face.  Quiet,  sad  days  followed.  Joseph  West's  affairs 
were  simple  and  in  order,  and  were  quickly  and  easily 
disposed  of.  West  lingered  longer  than  was  necessary, 
for  again  the  associations  of  his  youth  had  taken  hold 
of  him.  He  sat  in  his  old  room  and  looked  out  across 
the  hills  of  his  early  inspirations.  He  walked  by  the 
river  of  his  childhood  dreams.  He  climbed  into  the  glass- 
lined  turret  where  he  had  first  gratified  his  youthful  am 
bitions  to  write,  and  spent  hours  living  over  his  dead 
days  of  high  hopes.  Seminoff  remained  with  him,  and 
the  years  fell  from  West  like  unrealities  until  he  again 

243 


244  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

became  attuned  to  the  eager  ambitions  which  had  once 
inflamed  his  blood. 

On  the  day  of  his  departure  from  Greenwood  Semi- 
noff  and  he  had  climbed  to  the  pinnacle  of  Crow's  Nest. 
The  valley  lay  stretched  out  before  them  in  the  bright 
silence  of  the  morning  sun.  It  was  just  such  a  day  as 
this  that  years  ago  West  had  stood  alone  contemplating 
the  meagreness  of  the  life  at  his  feet.  It  was  then  that 
an  alien  genius  from  beyond  the  horizon  had  come  to 
him  and  fired  him  with  dreams  of  distant  lands  and  splen 
did  conquests,  and  he  had  thought  the  little  brick  College 
on  Oak  Hill  too  small  for  his  keeping  and  had  pro 
jected  himself  into  the  vast  world  beyond  the  hills.  .  .  . 
Again  that  genius  came  to  him  now  and  carried  his 
soul  away  to  the  lands  he  had  never  seen  and  to  con 
quests  from  which  he  had  shrunk  during  the  past  years 
of  his  servitude.  That  mystic,  beckoning  world  was  still 
awaiting  him,  just  as  when  he  had  been  a  boy ;  and  though 
he  had  travelled  great  distances  beyond  the  hills  he  was 
as  far  from  having  achieved  the  glories  that  awaited  him 
as  if  he  had  never  deserted  the  quiet  paths  of  his  youth. 
The  sensation  of  irreparable  loss  went  through  him,  and 
it  was  followed  by  an  almost  frantic  desire  to  gather  up 
again  the  strings  of  his  life  which  had  slipped  through 
his  fingers.  He  felt  stronger,  more  sure  of  himself  now 
than  at  any  time  since  his  marriage.  He  believed  in  his 
power  to  combat  the  soft,  draining  influences  of  his 
family.  With  thousands  of  miles  between  him  and  them, 
they  seemed  less  effectual.  Isolated  among  the  scenes 
of  his  boyhood  he  experienced  again  the  sting  of  high 
endeavour. 

"We  part  to-day,  probably  for  many  years/'  Semi- 
noff's  voice  aroused  him  to  his  immediate  surroundings. 
"Will  you  let  me  say  something  to  you?" 

West  put  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  He  felt 
very  close  to  his  friend  in  all  moments  of  mental  stress. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  245 

Seminoff  always  seemed  to  him  impenetrable  and  invinci 
ble,  like  an  abstract  dynamic  force. 

"Say  whatever  you  please,"  he  responded.  "I  shall 
probably  agree  with  you  in  everything.  Your  words  will 
shame  me,  but  I  want  to  hear  them.  During  the  past 
years  your  mental  castigations  have  been  all  that  have 
kept  my  philosophical  conscience  alive."  He  knew  what 
Seminoff  was  about  to  say,  but  he  welcomed  the  unpleas 
antness  of  his  forthcoming  words.  They  would  whip 
into  shape  the  scattered  ends  of  his  new  resolve. 

"The  time  has  come  for  you  to  make  a  choice,"  Semi 
noff  began,  after  a  pause.  "You've  already  thrown  away 
many  of  your  best  years;  and  what  has  become  of  the 
promise  of  your  youth?  You  wrote  one  book — years 
ago — which  should  have  been  your  stepping-stone  to 
greatness.  It  was  little  more  than  a  prelude  to  what  you 
might  have  done.  Instead  of  following  it  up,  you  went 
back  on  all  your  ideals.  You  wrote  an  inconsequential 
novel.  I  looked  upon  it  at  first  as  an  interlude — a  con 
cession  to  your  wife,  and  I  forgave  you.  Then,  a  year 
later,  there  came  another  of  the  same  sort.  I  knew  that 
you  had  been  caught  in  the  conventional  tide,  turned  from 
your  course,  robbed  of  your  decency  and  strength,  stran 
gled  by  the  easy  listlessness  of  compromise.  It  disgusted 
me,  and  in  my  heart  I  turned  from  you  with  a  feeling 
that  something  worth  while  had  gone  out  of  my  life. 
Then  I  thought  of  your  age,  and  I  felt  that  there  was 
still  time  for  you  to  get  hold  again  upon  yourself. 
Your  cable  came  saying  you  were  returning  to  America, 
and  I  decided  to  see  you,  to  talk  to  you,  to  try  to  waken 
you  to  a  realization  of  your  cowardice.  I  won't  mince 
my  words.  If  they  offend  you,  then  I'll  know  that  you 
have  separated  from  me  as  well  as  from  the  path  of 
your  manhood.  It  will  make  little  difference — your 
anger.  It  will  be  the  anger  of  one  dead  to  me.  If  you 
listen — if  you  still  have  that  old  spark  of  strength  and 
courage  in  you,  then  I  may  regain  the  friend  I  have  lost." 


246  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  West  who  stood,  silent  and 
motionless,  with  bowed  head. 

"You're  well  past  thirty/'  he  went  on.  "Every  day 
you  wait  carries  you  further  away  from  your  better  and 
cleaner  nature,  and  the  chances  for  your  return  are  fast 
slipping  by.  .  .  .  Are  you  so  weak  that  you  would  let 
a  woman  drag  you  from  your  high  purpose  and  suck 
out  of  you,  like  a  vampire,  all  the  nobility  and  daring  in 
your  blood  ?" 

West  raised  his  head  and  was  about  to  resent  the 
other's  words. 

"Say  what  you  choose,"  Seminoff  hastened  to  say 
before  the  other  could  speak.  "Lie  to  yourself,  and  strike 
me  with  the  lie.  ...  It  doesn't  matter.  .  .  .  You  know 
I  am  telling  the  truth.  You  know  that  she's  your  enemy 
— unconscious,  to  be  sure ;  and  you  know  that  I  am  your 
friend  and  that  my  words  are  just.  .  .  .  Make  your 
choice." 

West  seated  himself  in  silence,  and  rested  his  head  on 
his  hands.  It  was  bitter  medicine  that  was  being  fed 
him,  but  he  determined  to  swallow  it. 

"Your  wife  is  no  worse — in  fact,  better — than  the  av 
erage  so-called  high-minded  woman.  It's  not  her  fault. 
It's  the  fault  of  her  sex.  Women  can't  aspire  beyond 
the  heights  to  which  the  normal  world  has  already  at 
tained.  They  are  materialists,  and  their  ideals  are  only 
the  reflections  of  the  material  life  of  humanity.  They 
want  comfort,  peace,  plenty,  stability,  recognition — the 
solidity  of  a  recognizable  and  familiar  foundation.  Some 
women  see  higher  than  others — then  aspire  to  higher 
things,  perhaps ;  but  there's  a  limit  to  all  feminine  aspira 
tion.  ...  I  see  the  whole  sexual  relationship  symbolized 
in  the  wheel.  The  women  are  the  hub,  the  men  are  the 
spokes,  radiating  from  the  centre,  and  yet  held  fast  to 
that  centre.  The  rim  of  the  wheel  represents  the  limits 
of  the  tangible  and  comprehensible  world.  .  .  .  Before  a 
woman  had  entirely  subdued  you  to  her  limitations,  you 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  247 

soared  to  the  mountain  tops.  Then  you  were  dragged 
down — not  because  you  could  not  have  resisted  her 
power,  but  because  you  were  too  weak,  too  easy-going, 
too  sentimental,  too  enmeshed  in  your  own  sexual  in 
stincts.  You  turned  from  doing  what  you  felt  you  had 
to  do, — whether  your  ideas  were  right  or  wrong  doesn't 
matter.  The  process  of  self-realization  is  the  big  thing, 
not  the  effects  of  your  efforts  on  the  world.  .  .  .  You 
began  to  write  novels.  And  they  were  good  novels — I 
don't  deny  that.  They  were  capable,  and  so  far  as  they 
went  they  were  serious.  For  a  lesser  man  than  you  they 
would  have  represented  high  achievement.  The  critics 
were  right  in  acclaiming  you.  Judged  impersonally,  you 
deserve  the  honours  paid  you.  But  in  those  novels  was 
none  of  that  fine  fervour,  that  reckless  self-confidence, 
that  vitality  of  new  ideas,  which  was  once  a  part  of  you. 
In  them  was  the  tacit  acceptance  of  the  world's  standard 
of  ethics  and  morals.  They  were  brilliant  records  of  life, 
but  after  all  reportorial.  They  were  not  creative  as 
applied  to  you.  They  reflected  the  petty  conservatism 
of  men's  minds.  ...  Do  you  yourself  realize  how  cheap 
and  superficial  they  were,  judged  by  your  own  standard 
and  not  by  that  of  the  people  who  read  them?  ...  They 
spelled  your  disintegration,  your  failure,  your  weakness, 
your  subjugation.  They  were  dishonest — negative  lies. 
They  were  the  monuments  of  a  coward — for  you  are  a 
coward,  a  compromiser,  a  skirt-crazed  weakling." 

Seminoff's  tone  had  become  angry.  His  words  piled 
up  with  fiery  insistence.  Had  West's  nature  been  smaller 
he  would  have  resented  the  other's  excoriation.  He 
would  have  given  way  to  the  conventional  instinct  of 
superficial  self-respect.  He  would  have  risen  to  the  dic 
tates  of  his  dignity.  But  such  impulses  seemed  to  have 
no  place  in  the  present  situation.  He  and  Seminoff  stood 
for  the  moment  outside  the  gates  of  current  formalities, 
and  the  poses  of  the  world  were  not  relative  to  their 
lives.  They  were  stranded  on  an  island  where  a  simple, 


248  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

primitive  life  obtained,  where  there  were  no  codes  or 
systems  of  conduct.  West  knew  that  he  needed  the 
scourge  of  SeminofFs  words,  for  while  the  other  was 
talking  he  had  felt  the  ligaments  of  his  own  resolve 
tighten.  And  from  the  hidden  dungeons  of  his  mind 
there  had  clamoured  forth  an  old,  familiar  strength  which 
he  believed  was  great  enough  to  carry  out  that  resolve. 

There  was  a  long  silence  when  Seminoff  had  finished 
speaking.  West  looked  down  into  the  valley  at  the 
sleepy  town  and  its  grey  and  red  roofs  among  the  maples. 
His  eyes  rested  on  the  brick  College,  and  he  sought  out 
the  turret  of  the  home  of  his  boyhood.  How  little  the 
scene  had  changed !  And  yet  how  far  away  he  had 
drifted!  He  felt  suddenly  younger,  and  he  arose  and 
took  a  deep  inspiration. 

"My  resolution  has  been  made — old  friend,"  he  said 
firmly.  "It  was  here  that  I  first  dreamed  of  what  I  could 
do.  To-day  those  dreams  have  come  back  to  me.  At 
first  they  seemed  only  the  reflection  of  my  earlier  desires. 
But  you  have  made  them  the  same  dreams,  and  they  have 
taken  hold  of  me  with  all  their  old  energy  and  promise. 
.  .  .  My  heart  is  too  full  for  me  to  say  anything  more 
to  you  about  my  life,  but  by  this  time  next  year  you  shall 
know  what  is  in  my  heart." 

That  afternoon  West  accompanied  his  mother  to  Sara 
toga  to  the  home  of  near  relatives  where  she  was  to  live. 
The  old  house  in  Greenwood  was  not  to  be  disposed  of. 
It  was  closed  and  sealed,  and  it  would  remain  that  way. 
It  had  been  Joseph  West's  wish  that  it  should  never  pass 
into  outsiders'  hands,  that  its  family  tradition  should 
be  preserved.  He  had  hoped  that  it  should  be  his 
son's  dwelling,  but  when  that  possibility  seemed  to  have 
fallen  through  there  was  but  one  other  course  left 
him  whereby  it  should  not  be  desecrated  by  strangers.  It 
was  to  remain  empty  until  such  a  day  as  his  line  should 
be  irretrievably  alienated  from  the  placid  ways  of  earlier 
generations.  Then  it  should  be  torn  down.  In  his  will 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  249 

he  had  provided  for  its  upkeep,  closing  that  item  of  his 
codicil  with  the  words :  "until  such  a  day  as  when  my 
own  shall  be  forever  lost  to  me,  or  when  my  own 
shall  return  to  the  quiet  ways  which  have  been  mine, 
and  my  father's,  and  his  father's  before  him.  In  either 
event,  my  son  Stanford  shall  dictate  the  day  of  consum 
mation."  West  could  have  decided  that  now  and  had 
the  house  torn  down,  for  the  chance  of  his  returning  to 
it  seemed  not  within  the  realms  of  life's  possibilities.  But 
that  would  have  saddened  his  mother  and  broken  the 
serenity  of  her  dreams.  So  the  house  was  to  rest  intact 
and  untenanted  until  her  death. 

West  remained  a  week  in  Saratoga.  It  had  not  been 
his  intention,  but  when  he  saw  the  broken,  helpless  con 
dition  of  his  mother,  emphasized  by  her  final  departure 
from  the  home  in  which  her  life  had  been  spent,  he  feared 
for  her  health  and  stayed  close  to  her,  helping  her  to 
overcome  the  effects  of  the  tragedy  that  had  put  an  end 
to  her  happiness.  The  suddenness  of  Joseph  West's 
death  had  given  her  no  time  to  fortify  herself  against  the 
emptiness  of  the  coming  years.  For  the  first  two  weeks 
following  the  event  she  had  been  like  a  woman  stunned, 
incapable  of  reacting  to  her  grief,  insensible  to  the  true 
condition  of  her  new  state.  Not  until  she  had  reached 
Saratoga  did  the  relief  of  tears  come  to  her.  And  so 
violent  was  the  sudden  and  complete  realization  of  her 
loneliness  that  she  was  physically  exhausted.  When 
West  had  first  seen  her  he  mistook  her  calm  for  fortitude. 
Her  real  suffering,  however,  did  not  come  until  she  had 
passed  from  out  the  environment  of  her  forty  years  of 
married  life.  Then  the  great  wave  of  her  desolation 
flooded  her,  and  she  gave  way  under  it  and  became  an 
old  woman. 

Her  suffering  affected  West  almost  as  deeply  as  had 
his  father's  death.  He  did  all  in  his  power  to  comfort 
and  console  her,  at  the  same  time  fighting  desperately 
against  the  effects  of  this  double  tragedy  which  seemed 


250  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

to  tear  his  heart  apart  like  a  physical  thing.  At  length 
his  mother's  strength  returned,  and  she  got  her  sorrow 
under  control.  Her  self-mastery  returned,  and  West  felt 
safe  in  going  from  her.  But  the  week's  ordeal  had  racked 
and  devitalized  him.  His  strength  of  mind  and  body 
had  been  sapped  by  the  experience.  He  looked  back  upon 
Seminoff's  talk  with  him  on  Crow's  Nest  as  an  almost 
trivial  incident.  In  the  face  of  profound  and  devastating 
realities  even  his  work  seemed  only  the  inconsequential 
flotsam  on  the  surface  of  life. 

On  the  day  he  was  to  go  his  mother  put  her  arm 
about  him  and  drew  him  down  beside  her. 

"Son,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you — only  for  a 
few  minutes.  To-day  you  go  from  me,  and  maybe  I 
shall  never  see  you  again.  But  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
something.  I  want  to  hear  it  from  your  own  lips.  .  .  . 
I  really  don't  worry  about  it,  but  now  you  are  all  I  have 
left  in  the  world,  and  during  these  last  terrible  days  a 
strange  fear  has  come  over  me — a  fear  that  maybe — 
maybe  I  may  lose  you,  too.  Not  in  the  way  I  lost  your 
dear  father,  but  in  another  more  awful  way.  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  son,  that  you  are  never  going  to  write  any  more  of 
the  kind  of  books  you  first  wrote.  ...  I  couldn't  stand 
it  now.  I've  been  so  happy  over  your  success.  I've  tried 
to  forget  that  my  own  child  ever  thought  the  things  you 
once  published.  I've  told  myself  that  you  were  young 
and  didn't  mean  them,  and  these  last  years  have  strength 
ened  me  in  that  belief.  It  wasn't  so  hard  when  I  had 
your  father  to  comfort  me.  but  now — don't  you  see? — 
you  are  all  that  I  have." 

Her  voice  broke,  and  the  tears  forced  themselves  into 
her  eyes. 

After  a  distracted  pause,  she  continued:  "I'm  all 
alone,  and  I  couldn't  go  through  the  horror  again  of  the 
days  that  followed  your  other  writings.  ...  I  couldn't 
stand  it,  son.  It  would  kill  me.  It  would  take  every 
thing  out  of  my  life.  Without  you  there  is  nothing  for 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  251 

me  to  live  for  any  more.  If  you  deserted  me  now  it 
would  be  the  last  drop  in  my  cup  of  sorrow.  If  ever 
you  should  write  such  things  again,  I'd  know  that  when 
I  laid  your  father  away  I'd  laid  away  everything  that  I 
had  in  life." 

She  drew  West's  head  to  her  shoulder  and  kissed  him 
sobbingly.  He,  too,  was  overcome  with  her  grief,  and 
took  her  gently  in  his  arms,  returning  her  disconsolate 
caresses. 

"Mother  of  mine,"  he  told  her,  "don't  add  to  your  bur 
den  by  imagining  such  things  about  me." 

She  smiled  faintly  through  her  tears. 

"I  know  you  wouldn't  deliberately  break  this  last 
remnant  of  my  hope  in  life,  but  I  want  you  to  promise  me. 
Then  I  can  let  you  go  from  me  without  too  great  a  heart 
ache.  .  .  .  It's  not  only  for  my  sake,  son.  It's  for  yours, 
too,  and  for  Alice's  and  the  baby's.  If  you  could  have 
seen  the  letter  she  wrote  me  in  her  misery;  you  almost 
broke  her  heart.  She  loves  you  with  a  very  great  and 
unselfish  love,  and  if  you  should  go  back  to  your  youth 
ful  beliefs  she  would  suffer  just  as  I  would,  only  her 
suffering  would  be  that  of  disgrace  as  well.  I  am  alone 
and  disgrace  doesn't  matter  now.  .  .  .  And  the  baby, 
too,  would  be  disgraced.  Think  of  the  handicap  she 
would  have  to  fight  against  when  she  was  old  enough 
to  feel  the  effects  of  her  father's  acts!  It  wouldn't  be 
worth  while,  would  it,  son? — 'You  might  far  better  kill 
the  three  of  us  outright.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  will  promise  me, 
won't  you,  dear?  You  won't  take  the  last  hope  of  my 
life  from  me.  .  .  .  You  won't  break  Alice  with  grief, 
and  disgrace  that  little  life  you  have  brought  into  the 
world.  .  .  .  You  owe  her  your  protection.  You  owe  it 
to  yourself  to  take  care  of  her  and  make  her  happy.  You 
are  all  I  have.  .  .  .  Promise  me  you  won't " 

During  her  final  words  she  had  become  utterly  dis 
traught.  Her  tears  flowed  freely,  and  she  clutched  West's 
hands  with  almost  hysterical  nervousness.  He  looked  at 


252  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

her  sunken  eyes  and  white  hair.  Her  hands  were  thin  and 
had  lost  their  grace.  The  blue  veins  stood  out  upon  them. 
The  desolation  of  age  had  claimed  her,  and  the  tragedy 
of  all  the  world  seemed  centred  in  her.  He  felt  a  con 
striction  of  his  throat,  and  his  mother's  happiness  for  the 
moment  he  would  have  bought  at  any  price. 
"I  promise,  mother  dear/'  he  said  softly. 


XXV 

AGAIN  in  London,  West  was  more  than  ever  aware  of 
the  Betters  which  held  him  to  a  life  against  which  his 
spirit  revolted.  His  weeks  of  absence  seemed  to  have 
lessened  his  sentimental  interest  in  his  wife.  He  experi 
enced  little  pleasure  in  being  again  with  her  and  his  child. 
On  the  train  from  Folkstone  to  London  he  was  seized 
with  an  excessive  and  unaccountable  nervousness.  It 
was  not  that  he  did  not  love  his  wife;  but  something  in 
the  imminent  return  to  his  conjugal  relationship  revolted 
against  a  deep,  natural  instinct  whose  meaning  he  did  not 
attempt  to  analyse.  His  promises  to  Seminoff  had  been 
forgotten.  His  old  desires  were  not  uppermost  in  his 
mind.  He  was  still  under  the  spell  of  his  mother's  sor 
row.  Her  appeal  to  him  on  the  day  of  his  departure  had 
more  than  counteracted  the  effect  of  Seminoff's  words. 
He  was  gloomy  and,  in  a  measure,  resigned.  The  thought 
of  his  unfulfilled  ambitions  did  not  affect  him  deeply.  He 
had  been  forced  to  accept  life  at  its  own  terms,  and  his 
system  seemed  drained  of  all  desire  for  struggle. 

During  the  first  few  weeks  of  his  return  the  tentacles 
of  comfort  and  ease,  of  careful  and  loving  attention,  of 
orderliness,  of  a  smooth-flowing  and  subfusc  routine, 
reached  out  and  encircled  him;  a  spirit  of  rest  and  con 
tentment  pervaded  his  being.  A  letter  from  Seminoff, 
reviewing  their  meeting  and  calling  attention  to  West's 
promises,  failed  to  arouse  in  him  any  of  his  former  emo 
tions.  The  letter  was  read  hurriedly  and  put  aside.  In 
half  an  hour  its  contents  had  been  forgotten. 

A  year  of  idleness  went  by.  No  ambitions  of  any  kind 
stirred  him.  He  thought  little  of  his  possibilities.  The 

255' 


254  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

book  he  had  written  under  SeminofFs  influence  drifted  so 
far  into  the  perspective  of  the  past  that  during  his  mo 
ments  of  retrospection  he  came  to  look  upon  it  with  un 
emotional  and  impersonal  eyes.  He  had  no  inclination 
to  continue  his  more  recent  work — the  work  which  had 
pleased  his  wife  and  his  mother.  The  creative  spirit  had 
gone  from  him.  His  life  was  filled  with  small  pleasures 
and  with  innumerable  details  which,  though  not  im 
portant,  had  about  them  an  air  of  necessity.  The  plaster 
of  his  existence  had  hardened  about  him.  Insinuatingly 
the  idea  of  permanency  and  perpetuity  took  hold  of  him, 
until  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  imagine  a  routine  other 
than  the  one  in  which  he  was  living. 

He  had  come  to  love  his  daughter  more  and  more  as 
she  grew  and  developed.  His  tenderness  toward  her 
increased;  and  the  thought  of  doing  anything  to  injure 
her  appeared  to  him  so  monstrous  that  he  could  think 
of  no  compensation  great  enough  to  warrant  any  such 
act.  As  he  thought  back  to  his  mother's  and  his  wife's 
pleadings  with  him  to  forgo  his  heresies  on  the  child's 
account,  he  felt  the  justice  of  their  appeals.  After  all, 
what  end  would  be  served  by  breaking  the  hearts  of  those 
who  loved  him? 

At  the  end  of  two  years  he  smiled  at  his  old  vehemence 
and  fire.  There  was  something  bordering  on  the  prepos 
terous  about  his  early  passion  to  revitalize  the  world  with 
his  ideas.  He  even  regretted  the  sufferings  he  had  passed 
through,  the  sacrifices  he  had  made  to  his  principles,  the 
disappointments  he  had  undergone.  How  much  happier 
would  have  been  his  boyhood  had  he  been  like  the  others 
— care-free,  uneager,  uninspired,  normal.  Yes,  that  was 
it:  he  had  been  abnormal.  As  a  consequence  he  had 
missed  much  of  the  spontaneous  and  unquestioning  fel 
lowship  of  other  boys.  He  thought  of  his  rupture  with 
the  Monthly  board  at  the  University  and  of  his  subse 
quent  ostracism ;  and  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  himself.  He 
recalled  the  lonely  hours  during  which  he  had  brooded 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  255 

over  impossible  ideals  of  a  new  culture ;  and  felt  cheated 
by  those  lonely,  desolate  struggles.  He  remembered  his 
father's  prediction  to  him  at  the  end  of  their  first  dis 
tressing  clash — "Some  day  you'll  think  back  on  these 
words  of  yours,  and  your  remorse  will  be  your  bitterest 
punishment."  For  the  first  time  since  he  had  become  a 
man  that  cruel  hour  had  come  back  to  punish  him.  Then 
there  was  his  book  which  had  injured  his  wife  and  nearly 
broken  his  mother's  heart.  He  felt  guilty  at  the  thought 
of  it.  The  world  had  already  forgotten  it,  but  the  scars 
still  remained  on  the  hearts  of  those  who  held  him  dear. 

He  seemed  much  older  now.  The  years  had  brought 
him  tolerance  and  had  minimized  the  hot  desires  of  ado 
lescence.  He  could  look  back  upon  his  life  with  the  criti 
cal  suavity  of  a  placid  and  substantial  maturity.  What 
pain  he  had  passed  through!  What  battles  he  had 
fought  to  no  avail!  How  much  he  had  missed  through 
the  blindness  of  aspiration! 

And  yet,  as  the  pageant  of  the  departed  years  passed 
by  him  in  retrospect,  his  youth  was  only  superficially  bit 
ter.  It  was  strung  upon  a  thread  of  golden  pleasure. 
He  felt  its  rich  and  splendid  compensations,  without 
knowing  exactly  why  he  should  have  felt  them,  for  he 
had  nothing  to  show  for  the  price  he  had  paid.  But  in  all 
those  intellectual  struggles  there  had  been  a  subtle  and 
transparent  essence  of  joy,  a  divine  philtre,  which  made 
his  memories  precious.  The  episodes  of  his  boyhood 
would  not  lend  themselves  to  isolated  speculation.  He 
found  that  he  must  dream  his  youth  as  a  whole,  not  as  a 
song,  nor  yet  as  mere  cacophony,  but  all  that  he  had  been 
— the  great  tears,  the  high  hopes,  the  kisses  and  the  heart 
aches,  and  the  old  sorrows  and  the  hills  at  dawn,  the 
laughter  and  grief  and  the  stern  fight.  He  discovered 
that  in  the  dissonance  of  his  soul  there  lay  an  incoherent 
unity  of  things — the  gold  with  the  dross,  the  brilliant  col 
ours  with  the  grey.  He  was  no  longer  a  child,  and  the 
desperate  hopes  of  his  childhood  were  now  put  aside. 


256  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

During  the  three  years  following  his  return  from 
America,  Alice  West  had  spoken  little  of  his  non-produc 
tiveness.  People  had  still  read  and  talked  about  his 
novels.  Critics  referred  to  his  work  and  mentioned  him 
from  time  to  time  in  their  reviews  of  modern  English 
letters.  But  other  men,  busier  than  he,  were  struggling 
toward  the  front,  and  new  names  were  supplanting  his 
in  the  columns  of  the  literary  publications.  It  was  at 
this  time  that  his  wife  came  to  him  and  pressed  him  about 
his  work. 

"Don't  forget,  dear,"  she  said,  "that  you  must  uphold 
your  greatness.  As  fine  as  your  other  books  have  been, 
I  feel  that  you  can  do  even  greater  things.  It  has  been 
a  long  time  since  you  wrote.  So  many  people  have  asked 
me  if  your  next  book  has  been  planned.  And  I  don't 
know  what  to  tell  them.  You  mustn't  become  lazy,  dear, 
and  let  your  wonderful  talents  get  rusty.  There's  no 
height  to  which  you  can't  attain ;  and  I  want  to  see  you 
at  the  top." 

Her  words  quickened  him. 

"I  have  been  lazy,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  shall  soon  begin 
to  plan  another  work.  ...  I  have  been  so  happy  with 
you  and  the  baby  that  everything  else  has  seemed  sub 
ordinate." 

"It's  for  the  baby  as  much  as  for  myself,  that  I  want 
you  to  be  great,"  Alice  West  told  him.  "You  will  go 
back  to  your  work,  won't  you  ?" 

For  days  thereafter  she  kept  the  subject  alive,  asking 
him  if  he  had  thought  of  what  he  was  to  write  about. 
As  a  result  of  her  constant  suggestions  and  questionings 
his  mind  began  to  speculate  along  fictional  lines.  He 
studied  the  people  about  him  critically,  looking  for  ex 
ternal  inspirations  for  his  new  book.  At  length  the  germ 
of  his  theme  came  to  him,  and  for  weeks  thereafter  he 
helped  it  fructify,  making  notes  and  working  out  bits 
of  psychology  which  were  to  be  developed  later.  His 
mind  had  become  once  more  adjusted  to  the  labour  of 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  257 

novel  writing.  The  stress  of  endeavour  was  once  more 
upon  him.  But  this  time  it  did  not  give  him  the  pleasure 
and  satisfaction  he  had  once  felt.  He  was  eager  enough 
to  write,  but  his  emotions  lacked  intensity;  they  did  not 
absorb  him  completely.  But  he  set  to  work  with  avidity, 
constantly  egged  on  by  his  wife's  interest. 

He  shut  himself  up  and  wrote  steadily.  It  was  an 
obligation  he  owed  himself  and  his  family,  and  his  sense 
of  duty  was,  for  the  moment,  his  paramount  instinct. 
During  the  process  of  writing  his  new  novel  his  con 
science  did  not  trouble  him.  He  did  not  inwardly  revolt 
against  the  task  as  he  had  when  first  he  turned  from  his 
early  ambitions  to  write  what  was  demanded  of  him.  He 
realized  that  he  had  changed  much,  for  there  had  been 
a  time  when  he  would  have  resented  his  present  labour. 
But  even  this  knowledge  did  not  make  him  unhappy.  The 
wild  and  solitary  aspirations  of  his  early  years  appeared 
to  him  now  in  the  guise  of  ludicrous  and  futile  prompt 
ings.  Sometimes,  when  the  subject  came  up,  he,  himself, 
would  ridicule  his  former  ambitions.  Alice  West  would 
smile  contentedly,  happy  and  secure  in  her  husband's  new 
point  of  view.  She  could  afford  to  be  generous  now,  and 
she  did  not  join  him  in  his  ridicule.  To  the  contrary, 
she  defended  his  old  impetuosity,  saying  that  it  marked 
a  transitional  period  through  which  all  great  men  were 
apt  to  pass.  She  even  apologized  for  her  bitterness  to 
ward  him  during  that  period. 

"If  I  had  only  known,"  she  would  say,  "I  would  have 
said  nothing  to  make  you  unhappy.  I  should  have  under 
stood  that  your  heresies  were  only  temporary.  Deep 
in  my  heart  I  always  knew  that  things  would  change  some 
day,  and  yet  I  could  not  put  away  the  fear  that  you  would 
go  on  and  on  as  you  were  going.  That's  why  I  pleaded 
with  you  as  I  did — that's  why  I  made  you  suffer  by  my 
faultfinding.  But  it's  all  over  now,  dear;  and  I  am 
happy.  My  present  pride  in  you  has  made  me  forget 
the  sorrows  I  passed  through  for  your  sake." 


258  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Then  she  would  ask  him  how  the  new  book  was  pro 
gressing.  She  would  discuss  it  with  him  at  length,  and 
he  would  show  her  passages  from  it.  She  admired  it, 
and  was  frank  in  her  enthusiasm.  She  even  suggested 
the  alteration  of  certain  details,  saying  that  the  woman's 
point  of  view  was  good  for  his  book,  that  her  intuition 
was  surer  than  his  masculine  judgment.  More  than  once 
she  convinced  him  that  she  was  right,  and  he  made  the 
changes  she  suggested.  His  acquiescence  to  her  modi 
fications  secretly  pleased  her.  It  made  her  feel  that  she 
was,  in  a  measure,  a  collaborator  with  him.  And  West, 
seeing  her  pleasure,  was  happy  also.  Before  the  book 
was  finished,  he  had  come  to  believe  that  she  was  a 
great  help  to  him  in  his  work,  that  the  little  "touches" 
which  she  contributed  were  improvements.  As  a  result 
he  began  to  feel  his  dependence  on  her.  Gradually  the 
idea  of  humanism  entered  into  his  calculations.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  he  reasoned,  he  was  too  cold  and  analytic.  It 
was  quite  possible  that  he  lacked  that  warmth  of  intimacy 
which  would  give  his  book  the  final  touch  of  inspirational 
sincerity.  There  might  be  in  his  standpoint  too  relentless 
a  logic  to  permit  of  his  work  being  a  moving  document. 
Therefore,  he  listened  to  his  wife's  criticisms,  and  com 
promised  with  the  inevitability  of  his  syllogisms  by  intro 
ducing  into  them  the  irrational  and  appealing  humanity 
which  motivated  her  judgments.  He  did  not  err  on  the 
side  of  sentimentality.  He  merely  qualified  his  conclu 
sions  with  the  tolerance  of  sympathy. 

When  the  novel  appeared,  the  critics  once  more  ap 
plauded.  They  spoke  of  the  mellowness  of  his  maturity. 
He  had  not  written  a  book  for  many  years,  and  they 
intimated  that  during  those  years  he  had  come  to  a  truer 
understanding  of  the  human  struggle,  that  he  had  shaken 
off  a  certain  intolerance  of  youth  which  had  charac 
terized  many  passages  of  his  earlier  fiction.  Those  of 
the  reviewers  who  had  praised  him  before  found  in  this 
book  a  justification  for  their  prophecies.  They  had  said 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  259 

that  he  had  possessed  great  promise ;  and  now,  they  as 
serted,  that  promise  had  been  fulfilled.  By  this  new 
book  he  became  an  important  and  established  factor  in 
English  letters.  He  was  generously  commended  by  the 
older  men  who,  in  the  security  of  their  position,  could 
afford  to  welcome  him  into  their  ranks.  Several  of  the 
younger  men  wrote  to  him  for  advice  and  criticism,  and 
his  words  of  praise  in  connection  with  the  first  book  of 
a  new  author  were  used  extensively  for  advertising.  No 
longer  was  he  on  trial. 

His  book  sold  well.  It  was  not  a  large  commercial 
success,  however.  It  was  too  careful  and  able  a  piece 
of  work  ever  to  have  succeeded  greatly  from  a  purely 
popular  appeal.  But  there  were  very  few  people  inter 
ested  in  current  literature  who  did  not  know  of  him  and 
of  the  book,  and  who  did  not  respect  him  and  believe  in 
his  greatness.  Two  important  and  conservative  editorial 
appointments  were  offered  him,  each  of  which  implied 
a  high  honour.  But  he  did  not  accept  them.  He  did  not 
care  for  such  work.  Even  the  tributes  which  were  paid 
him  left  him  singularly  unmoved.  He  accepted  them  as 
a  matter  of  course  and  with  little  enthusiasm. 

Alice  West  did  not  understand  his  attitude.  For  a 
man  of  his  years  he  had  attained  much.  Her  dreams  of 
him  had  been  materialized.  She  imagined  that  the  great 
ness  for  which  he  had  always  striven  had  at  last  come  to 
him,  and  she  was  genuinely  proud  and  happy. 

"You  should  be  the  happiest  man  in  England,  dear/' 
she  said  to  him  one  night,  when  they  had  returned  from 
a  dinner  at  which  he  had  been  the  guest  of  honour.  The 
most  important  literary  men  in  the  country  had  been 
present,  and  their  praise  had  been  unstinted.  "Think  how 
young  you  are,  and  what  you  have  already  attained!" 

"I  am  happy,"  he  replied,  a  little  wearily.  "And  yet, 
to-night,  as  I  sat  listening  to  the  compliments  that  were 
being  paid  me,  I  did  not  feel  as  I  once  thought  I  would 
feel.  I  ought  to  have  been  thrilled,  I  suppose.  I  should 


260  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

have  felt  like  the  luckiest  man  in  the  world.  But  the 
greatness  I've  achieved  seemed  tame  to  what  I  had 
imagined." 

West  did  not  analyse  his  emotions.  He  accepted  his 
literary  experiences  with  the  same  quiet  reserve  that  he 
exhibited  toward  all  the  other  pleasurable  factors  of  his 
life's  routine. 

"I  can't  understand  why  you  do  not  feel  as  proud  as 
I  do,"  his  wife  went  on.  "The  realization  of  success, 
after  all  your  struggles,  is  more  wonderful  to  me  than 
I  had  ever  dreamed  it  could  be,  and  the  thought  that  I 
have  helped  you  is  the  most  wonderful  part  of  it." 

"Don't  think  that  I  am  not  appreciative,"  West  told 
her,  tenderly.  "You  have  helped  me  much,  and  I  realize 
how  much  of  my  success  is  due  to  you." 

Another  year  went  by — a  year  of  comfort  and  happi 
ness.  Wherever  West  went,  he  found  that  he  was  sought 
after  and  respected.  The  magazines  and  literary  re 
views  mentioned  his  name  and  his  work  constantly. 
Nearly  every  mail  brought  him  some  fresh  indication  of 
his  established  acceptance.  At  first  he  read  all  that  was 
said  about  him.  But  after  a  few  months  had  passed  he 
merely  glanced  over  the  accounts  which  referred  to  him; 
and,  as  time  went  by,  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  open 
the  marked  copies  of  the  periodicals.  They  failed  to  in 
terest  him. 

Alice  West,  however,  read  them  all,  and  rebuked  him 
for  his  lack  of  appreciation. 

"How  wonderful  it  must  be,"  she  said  sometimes,  "to 
be  so  great  that  you  don't  care  what  people  say  about 
you!" 

She  looked  upon  his  disinterestedness  as  a  sign  of 
absolute  and  self-sufficient  contentment.  In  her  eyes  his 
lack  of  vanity  and  egotism  spelled  strength,  and  it  was 
with  pride  that  she  told  many  of  her  intimate  friends 
of  his  indifference  to  the  world's  plaudits. 

He  was  now  working  on  another  book.    As  formerly, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  261 

Alice  West  talked  with  him  about  it.  Her  interest  in 
it  was  keener  than  his  own,  for  though  he  felt  a  certain 
satisfaction  when  he  thought  of  the  eagerness  with  which 
his  words  would  be  read,  and  of  the  praise  which  would 
be  accorded  him,  he  failed  to  experience  any  genuine 
gratification  in  his  efforts.  He  was  never  overpowered 
by  the  hot  urgings  of  his  creative  will.  He  wrote  regu 
larly  every  day;  but  when,  in  the  early  evening,  he  put 
his  pen  aside  and  joined  his  wife  at  tea,  his  mind  easily 
forgot  his  task ;  and  when  he  rose  in  the  morning,  he  felt 
no  fires  burning  within  him.  He  was  not  eager  to  return 
to  his  work,  and  he  went  upstairs  to  his  study  with  the 
leisureliness  and  deliberation  of  a  man  performing  an 
habitual  exercise. 

When  the  novel  at  length  appeared,  the  reviews  treated 
it,  not  as  the  work  of  a  new  man  whose  laurels  were  in 
doubt,  but  as  the  accepted  expression  of  one  who  had 
arrived.  The  leading  critics  in  the  United  States  for  the 
first  time  claimed  its  author  as  one  of  their  countrymen, 
expressing  their  regret  that  he  had  chosen  to  expatriate 
himself.  This  new  eulogy  affected  West  even  less  than 
had  the  former,  and  when  his  wife  expressed  her  joy  at 
the  envious  reputation  he  had  acquired,  he  looked  at  her 
in  mild  wonderment,  as  if  he  could  not  understand  why 
she  should  care.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  interest  in  every 
thing  pertaining  to  intellectual  struggle  and  endeavour. 
He  felt  that  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  could  go  on  writing 
books  of  a  similar  nature;  but  the  prospect  moved  him 
no  more  than  if  he  considered  any  one  of  the  other  hun 
dred  activities  with  which  his  future  would  inevitably 
be  filled.  His  writing  had  become  a  part  of  his  routine, 
like  eating,  sleeping  and  walking.  What  significance  lay 
in  the  fact  that  certain  men,  who  had  arrogated  to  them 
selves  the  business  of  judging  others,  should  give  him 
credit  for  what  he  wrote  ?  His  literary  ability  was  sec 
ond  nature  to  him.  To  write  books  such  as  he  had 
recently  published  required  no  intellectual  effort  on  his 


262  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

part.  The  knowledge  which  went  into  their  making  was 
accepted  property;  and  the  facility  and  the  earnestness 
with  which  he  set  forth  his  story  were  acquisitions  to 
which  he  no  longer  gave  thought  or  attention. 

After  the  issuance  of  the  second  new  book,  a  subtle 
discomfiture  invaded  his  life.  It  was  purely  an  abstract 
unrest,  and  he  could  not  trace  it  to  any  definite  cause. 
The  praise  of  the  people  round  him  began  to  annoy  him. 
Instinctively  he  avoided  their  commendation.  When 
Alice  West  insisted  upon  his  greatness  he  became  slightly 
irritated.  Her  happy  satisfaction  increased  his  disqui 
etude,  and  many  times  when  he  sat  down  at  table  with 
her,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  apprehension  lest  she  might 
bring  up  the  subject  of  his  fame.  He  tried  to  discour 
age  her  in  her  enthusiasm,  but  she  mistook  his  attitude 
for  insincere  modesty,  and  refused  to  comply  with  his 
wishes.  Without  knowing  the  cause  for  it,  he  began  to 
withdraw  from  the  people  he  knew.  He  spent  more 
time  alone.  When  his  work  was  finished  in  the  after 
noon,  he  would  send  word  to  his  wife  that  he  was  unable 
to  join  her  at  tea;  and  he  would  sit  alone  in  his  study, 
smoking  abstractedly,  letting  his  mind  play  over  the 
events  of  his  matured  life. 

West  was  self-analytical,  and  more  than  once  he  tried 
to  run  down  the  reason  for  his  restlessness.  However, 
no  solution  presented  itself  to  him,  and,  in  time,  he 
attempted  to  dismiss  his  condition  as  a  result  of  nervous 
ness  due  to  overwork.  For  a  few  weeks  he  went  to  Paris, 
alone,  throwing  himself  into  its  cafe  life  in  the  hope  that 
he  could  shake  himself  free  from  this  new  feeling  which 
amounted  almost  to  despondency.  But  on  his  return  to 
London  he  was  no  better,  and  he  again  went  to  work  in 
an  attempt  to  forget  it. 

Alice  West  noticed  the  change  in  him,  and  spoke  to 
him  about  it. 

"Is  there  anything  troubling  you?"  she  asked. 
"Surely,  if  anyone  has  cause  to  be  happy,  it  is  you." 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  263 

"I  think  it  is  only  a  temporary  depression,"  he  an 
swered.  "I  can  account  for  it  in  no  other  way.  It  is 
nothing  serious,  however.  I  simply  seem  to  have  reacted 
against  the  glory  that  has  been  heaped  on  me.  When 
once  I  get  my  new  novel  started,  it  will  disappear." 

"You  have  received  enough  admiration,"  his  wife  said, 
half  humorously,  "to  make  even  a  sick  man  well.  How 
can  you  be  downcast  when  your  name  is  on  everyone's 
lips — when  the  greatest  men  living  are  extolling  your 
literary  virtues?" 

"That's  what  I  can't  understand."  West  thought  a 
moment.  "And  yet — somehow — I  don't  want  their 
praise.  I  sometimes  wish  I  were  unknown.  Do  you 
know,  the  other  night,  when  that  French  Academy  pundit 
was  calling  me  the  ablest  novelist  in  England,  I  felt  like 
rushing  from  the  room.  His  words  inspired  me  with 
animosity  toward  him :  every  time  I  think  of  his  remarks 
I  feel  uncomfortable.  ...  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but 
I  become  uneasy  and  restless  whenever  I  am  told  how 
great  I  am." 

Alice  West  left  him,  frightened  at  his  words.  Alone, 
she,  too,  tried  to  account  for  his  attitude.  At  first,  she 
had  thought  it  was  due  to  his  want  of  vanity ;  but,  as  the 
days  went  by,  she  became  convinced  that  it  went  deeper. 
And  because  she  could  not  understand  it,  it  became  a 
troublesome  mystery  to  her.  She  did  not  bring  the  mat 
ter  up  again,  but  respected  his  inclination  toward  solitude. 

A  month  after  his  latest  book  had  made  its  appearance, 
he  received  a  communication  from  Seminoff.  West  had 
not  heard  from  him  for  over  a  year,  not  since  before  the 
publication  of  his  book  of  the  previous  year.  He  had 
thought  little  of  the  other's  silence.  His  regard  and 
respect  for  Seminoff  had  diminished  since  his  return 
to  England.  He  had  even  laughed  a  little  at  the  other's 
impassioned  idealism.  SeminorFs  words  and  admonitions 
had  of  late  appeared  to  him  as  the  extravagances  of 
youthful  zeal.  This  friend  of  his  school  days  belonged  to 


264  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

that  other  world  which  West  long  since  had  outgrown — 
the  world  of  ambition  and  sacrifice,  of  high  hopes  and 
hot  dreams. 

When  he  saw  the  envelope  with  its  familiar  handwrit 
ing,  he  smiled  with  a  kind  of  superior  sympathy  at  the 
associations  it  brought  to  mind.  Opening  the  letter,  he 
read  it ;  and  for  nearly  two  hours  he  did  not  move  from 
his  chair. 

"For  many  years/'  it  said,  "I  have  waited  and  hoped 
for  the  great  work  which  you  promised  me  you  would  do. 
It  has  not  come,  and  I  see  now  that  it  will  never  come. 
When  your  new  novel  appeared  a  year  ago,  I  said  nothing. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  writing  you,  as  I  am  now  writing, 
but  restrained  myself,  making  allowances  for  the  other 
influences  in  your  life.  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  novel 
would  be  your  last — a  final  compromise  with  the  dead 
ening  influences  which  have  swayed  you  for  so  long.  I 
believed  that,  during  the  intervening  years,  you  had  been 
working  on  the  books  we  had  talked  over  together,  and 
that  the  novel  was  thrown  out  as  a  sop  to  the  constant 
demands  which  I  knew  were  being  made  on  you.  I  at 
tributed  the  book  to  a  temporary  weakness,  realizing  how 
difficult  it  is  for  a  man,  once  caught  in  the  conventional 
toils,  to  wrench  himself  free. 

"The  other  day  your  new  novel  appeared,  and  I  am 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  no  hope  for^you. 
You  have  bartered  the  most  sacred  things  in  your  life — > 
the  great  power  and  the  able  mind  you  once  possessed 
You  have  sold  them  for  the  benefits  of  a  cheap  academic 
success.  You  have  been  acclaimed  a  great  novelist.  But 
acclaimed  by  whom?  People  whose  minds  are  immured 
in  tradition,  in  the  sloughs  of  mediocre  and  despicable 
conventionalism.  Judas  betrayed  Christ  for  thirty  pieces 
of  silver.  You  have  betrayed  your  own  higher  self  for 
the  same  dirty  emolument.  No!  I  won't  give  you  so 
much  credit!  You  did  not  need  the  money.  You  did 
not  even  have  the  excuse  of  necessity  for  your  con- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  265 

temptible  conduct.  You  betrayed  yourself  because  you 
were  too  cowardly  to  fight  off  the  soft  influences  of 
women.  From  the  standpoint  which  you,  yourself,  once 
held,  your  novels  are  unworthy — you  know  this  as  well 
as  I  do.  You  have  chosen  the  smooth,  easy,  benign 
pathway  of  the  weaklings 

"I  believed  in  you  once.  I  was  proud  to  call  you  my 
friend.  Now,  I  repudiate  you,  and  blush  for  the  fact 
that  I  ever  held  you  in  high  esteem.  Had  another  man 
written  these  books  of  yours,  they,  perhaps,  would  have 
been  worth  while.  But  for  you  to  have  written  them 
is  a  crime  against  which  the  ghost  of  every  decent  in 
stinct  in  you  should  rise  up  in  revolt.  If  you  have  no 
shame  for  yourself,  then  I,  at  least,  have  shame  for  you ; 
but  it  is  a  shame  that  one  feels  for  a  craven.  You  shall 
never  again  hear  from  me,  nor  shall  I  ever  care  to  hear 
from  you  or  of  you  again.  My  rejection  of  you  and  of 
the  memory  of  our  friendship  will,  I  know,  make  no  in 
roads  on  your  smug  and  comfortable  hypocrisy.  A  man 
who  would  act  as  you  have,  who  would  throw  away  so 
great  a  gift  as  you  possessed,  because  he  was  not  willing 
to  bear  the  suffering  which  went  with  its  exercise,  is 
without  a  sense  of  the  higher  decency. 

"What  I  cannot  understand,  however,  is  how  a  man 
of  your  promise  could  face  the  tawdry  eulogy  with  which 
the  little  minds  are  showering  you.  There  was  a  time 
when  you  would  have  scoffed  at  such  praise,  when  your 
ideals  transcended  all  such  petty  panegyrics.  You  had 
in  you  the  germ  of  true  greatness.  Now  you  are  a  seeker 
of  conservative  and  academic -honours.  My  disgust  for 
you  is  measured  by  the  depth  of  your  own  decline.  I 
could  have  thrown  your  books  away  in  silence  and 
despised  you  in  my  heart  without  apprising  you  of  it. 
But,  for  some  reason,  I  wanted  you  to  be  aware  of  the 
fact  that  there  was  someone  in  the  world  who  knew  how 
despicable  you  are,  how  unworthy  of  any  consideration. 
In  the  chorus  of  commendation  there  is  one  dissenting 


266  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

voice.  And  may  that  voice  of  mine  act  as  your  con 
science,  for  you  seem  to  have  lost  your  own." 

It  was  dark  when  the  servant  came  to  West  with  a 
message  from  his  wife.  She  had  sent  word  that  he  must 
not  forget  their  dinner  engagement  that  evening. 

He  rose  and  shook  himself,  as  if  he  had  been  roused 
from  a  deep  sleep.  He  looked  at  the  servant  with  un 
familiar  eyes,  and  nodded  abstractedly.  At  last  he  under 
stood  the  cause  of  his  unrest.  He  knew  now  why  he 
shrank  inwardly  from  public  acclaim.  He  was  like  a 
man  who,  having  lost  his  memory,  had  received  a  sudden 
shock  which  had  once  again  set  his  associative  faculties 
in  motion.  And  in  that  awakening  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
aged  since  last  he  was  master  of  himself,  and  as  if  the 
great  opportunities  of  his  life  had  slipped  by.  He  re 
sented  SeminofFs  letter,  was  enraged  at  its  brutality. 
But  much  of  his  anger  was  engendered  by  a  sense  of  his 
own  unworthiness. 

That  night  at  dinner  he  saw,  with  a  clear  vision,  the 
littleness  and  mockery  of  his  success. 


XXVI 

DURING  the  following  weeks  West's  life  became  almost 
unbearable.  He  went  out  little.  Whenever  there  were 
social  obligations  to  be  met,  he  pleaded  a  headache  or 
the  necessity  of  finishing  some  important  bit  of  writing. 
He  experienced  a  complete  revulsion  for  the  encomiums 
of  the  people  with  whom  he  habitually  came  in  contact. 
His  wife's  attitude  of  satisfaction  over  his  success  took 
on  the  aspect  of  grim  and  cynical  mockery.  His  home 
with  all  of  its  intimate  details,  so  long  cherished,  lost  its 
appeal,  leaving  him  with  a  sense  of  black  disappointment, 
as  if  some  jewel  for  which  he  had  paid  an  enormous  price 
had  turned  out  to  be  paste.  The  greater  his  worldly  suc 
cess,  the  more  emphatic  became  his  inner  sense  of  defeat. 
He  grew  suddenly  weary;  his  spirituality  had  been 
stricken  with  paralysis.  SeminofFs  words  had  burned 
through  his  being  like  shafts  of  flame.  For  that  vicious 
letter  he  knew  that  he  could  never  forgive  the  man  he 
had  once  loved  like  a  brother.  The  affection  he  had 
borne  Seminoff  turned  to  a  bitter  hatred.  His  emotion 
at  times  took  the  form  of  a  desire  for  physical  violence. 

Yet  the  letter's  influence  persisted — that  was  the  un 
forgivable  part  of  it.  It  stirred  him  more  deeply  than 
any  other  event  in  his  life.  It  had  set  fire  to  the  whole 
peaceful  edifice  of  his  existence.  It  had  stripped  the 
clothes  from  his  soul  and  left  him  naked  and  miserable. 
It  had  turned  him  against  himself,  against  his  wife  and 
his  child,  against  his  mother,  against  every  factor  in  his 
new  and  comfortable  mode  of  living.  It  had  wrecked 
his  plans,  had  torn  the  foundations  from  under  him,  had 
withered  up  the  happiness  he  had  attained,  had  set  him 

267 


268  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

once  more  adrift  on  the  turbulent  sea  of  doubt  and  chaos. 
When  he  thought  of  it,  his  cheeks  burned  with  shame; 
his  heart  became  sick.  He  attempted  to  laugh  the  letter 
away,  to  overcome  its  fell  influence  with  scorn  and  de 
rision.  But  his  laughter  was  hollow  and  ineffectual;  it 
smote  his  ears  with  the  dread  of  insincerity. 

For  over  a  month  he  wrote  nothing,  although  he  went 
to  his  study  every  day,  coming  forth  only  for  his  meals. 
He  studied  books  which  for  years  had  remained  on  his 
shelves  unopened.  He  read  his  own  early  volumes, 
secretly  hoping  that,  in  the  light  of  his  maturity,  they 
would  appear  false  and  juvenile.  But  they  offered  him 
no  consolation.  He  even  marvelled  at  their  depth  and 
brilliance.  They  tended  only  to  accentuate  the  despond 
ent  alarm  which  had  taken  hold  of  him.  They  showed 
him  concretely  the  enormous  strides  of  his  disintegration. 
After  he  had  read  them  he  did  not  attempt  to  laugh 
away  the  truth  of  Seminoff's  excoriation.  He  en 
deavoured,  by  an  elaborate  process  of  reasoning,  to 
justify  his  decadence,  to  find  a  name  for  it  which  was 
free  from  onus.  He  turned  to  those  philosophical  writ 
ers  who  denied  reality  and  claimed  that  the  material 
world  was  but  the  figment  of  some  giant  dreamer's  mind. 
He  sought  out  the  many  historic  denials  of  free-will,  and 
weighed  them  carefully.  He  gave  days  of  consideration 
to  the  doctrine  of  eternal  recurrence ;  and  in  the  end  he 
turned  to  Schopenhauer,  hoping  to  find  stimulus  in  that 
thinker's  pessimism.  But  all  his  labours  proved  of  no 
avail.  When  he  imagined  that  he  had  convinced  himself 
of  the  unreality  and  meaninglessness  of  existence,  his  in 
stincts  overrode  his  logic,  and  allowed  him  no  peace. 

One  night  at  the  opera,  where  he  had  gone  with  a  small 
party  in  the  hope  of  gaining  temporary  relaxation  from 
his  torturing  disquietude,  he  found  himself  sitting  next 
to  Evelyn  Naesmith,  a  young  woman  he  had  met  casually 
on  two  or  three  previous  occasions.  They  now  sat  in  the 
rear  of  the  box,  a  little  separated  from  the  others.  West 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  269 

felt  a  mild  satisfaction  in  the  arrangement,  for  though 
they  had  spoken  to  each  other  only  a  few  times,  he  re 
membered  vividly  the  unusualness  of  her  manner  and 
words.  He  remembered,  too,  that  once  she  had  spoken 
with  serious  admiration  of  the  book  of  his  which  had 
nearly  resulted  in  his  wife's  ostracism.  He  had  been  a 
little  startled  at  the  time,  but  soon  after  had  dismissed  the 
episode,  attributing  her  remark  to  an  insincere  and  con- 
ventional  instinct.  Since  then,  however,  when  he  had 
met  her,  he  had  been  struck  with  a  certain  terse  intellec 
tual  freedom  which  seemed  to  characterize  her  and 
differentiate  her  from  the  other  women  in  his  and  his 
wife's  circle  of  acquaintances.  He  had  heard  her  spoken 
of  as  an  "intellectual  woman" — a  woman  who  had  trav 
elled  much  and  read  deeply,  and  whose  interests  were 
broad  and  informal.  Even  men  had  mentioned  her  ability 
to  discuss  topics  which  ordinarily  lay  outside  of  a  wo 
man's  personal  range.  In  fact,  men  seemed  to  like  her  in 
a  companionable  way.  Her  sense  of  satire,  perhaps, 
discouraged  those  among  them  who  might  have  pretended 
to  a  more  intimate  relationship.  Women  were  at  times 
shocked  at  her  opinions,  but  they  excused  what  they 
termed  her  intellectual  eccentricity,  because  they  had  only 
her  words,  and  not  her  actions,  with  which  to  condemn 
her.  Her  conduct  was  always  above  reproach.  She 
knew  many  important  people,  and  was  able  to  uphold 
her  end  of  any  conversation  which  the  situation  might 
have  offered.  She  was  well-informed  and  well-versed  in 
all  contemporary  literary  activities. 

Evelyn  Naesmith  did  not  look  over  thirty,  though  one 
might  have  found  in  her  talk  and  manner  many  indica 
tions  that  she  was  older.  She  dressed  youthfully  and  in 
the  latest  styles,  always  adding  to  her  costume  some  orig 
inal,  bizarre  touch  which  attracted  attention.  In  an 
aggressive  way,  her  physical  appearance  was  not  without 
fascination.  Her  blue  eyes  were  cold  and  penetrating, 
and  her  chin  was  firm.  Her  lips  were  not  sufficiently 


270  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

full  to  indicate  voluptuousness;  but  her  face  was  far 
from  neutral,  despite  the  fact  that  its  sensualism  was 
that  of  the  mind  rather  than  of  the  body.  Her  hair  was 
bronze,  but  it  seemed  to  possess  a  greater  degree  of 
brilliance  than  is  ordinarily  found  in  hair  of  similar  hue. 
She  wore  it  parted  and  brushed  back  where  it  formed  a 
large  braided  knot  well  down  on  her  neck;  and  not  in 
frequently  she  appeared  in  a  bandeau  which  was  always 
drawn  low  on  her  forehead.  Her  tapering  hands  were 
well-kept,  but,  despite  their  softness,  they  gave  the  im 
pression  of  strength  and  capability ;  and  she  adorned  them 
with  heavy  and  simple  jewelry.  She  was  tall  and  slender 
and  possessed  of  a  lithe  and  solid  gait.  Her  flesh  was 
firm  to  the  touch,  and  she  weighed  many  pounds  more 
than  one  would  have  guessed. 

Her  poise  and  self-confidence  constituted  her  most 
marked  characteristic.  Her  appearance  was  slightly  ex 
otic,  though  one  would  have  had  difficulty  in  saying  just 
what  point  about  her  gave  this  impression.  She  seemed 
to  realize  that  in  her  appearance  there  was  something 
unlike  that  of  other  women;  and  this  fact  coupled  with 
the  consciousness  that  she  was  mentally  different  as  well, 
resulted  in  an  ease  and  complacency  of  manner.  She 
talked  frankly  and  criticized  without  any  apparent  fear 
of  consequences.  On  the  surface  she  appeared  free  from 
the  conventional  chicaneries  of  deportment  which  char 
acterized  the  other  members  of  her  sex.  She  affected 
an  impersonal  point  of  view,  and  looked  upon  the  trivial 
affairs  of  other  women  with  a  smiling  and  amiable  con 
descension.  Those  who  knew  her  were  always  expecting 
some  fantastic  and  unconventional  deed  from  her:  her 
startling  beliefs  had  prepared  them  for  an  act  of  mediae 
val  wildness.  But  her  deportment  and  her  doctrines  were 
kept  well  separated,  and  she  had  never  supplied  a  peg 
on  which  to  hang  a  scandal. 

At  the  opera  that  night,  West  had  scarcely  time  to 
greet  her  before  the  curtain  rose.  She  acknowledged  his 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  271 

conventional  remark  in  a  manner  which  made  him  won 
der  whether  or  not  there  had  been  a  touch  of  disdain  in 
her  expression.  She  had  turned  from  him  immediately, 
and  concentrated  her  eyes  on  the  stage,  leaning  slightly 
forward.  He,  too,  tried  to  become  interested  in  the  music 
and  acting.  But  he  had  never  cared  deeply  for  opera, 
and  to-night  its  artificiality  seemed  more  evident  than 
ever  before.  He  settled  back  in  his  chair  and  watched 
the  profile  of  the  woman.  Once  or  twice  his  eyes  wan 
dered  to  his  wife's  face,  rested  there  a  moment,  and  then 
came  back  to  Evelyn  Naesmith.  He  found  himself  specu 
lating  on  the  latter' s  character  in  an  endeavour  to  re 
mark  the  difference  between  her  and  his  wife. 

This  analysis  was  little  more  than  a  mental  exercise, 
and  he  did  not  pause  to  consider  why  he  should  have 
been  interested  in  the  operation.  Suppose  circumstances 
had  been  such  that  he  had  married  Evelyn  Naesmith — • 
what  would  his  life  have  held  for  him  other  than  what 
it  now  held?  He  asked  himself  this  question  in  the 
same  spirit  that  he  might  have  speculated  on  a  new  form 
of  government,  without  a  realization  that  the  interroga 
tion  affected  him  personally.  But  when  he  arrived — • 
more  through  instinct  than  through  logic — at  the  conclu 
sion  that  he  would  have  found  in  this  other  woman  a 
deeper  sympathy  and  understanding,  he  felt  that  destiny 
had,  in  some  way,  tricked  him.  He  frowned  without 
knowing  it,  and  shifted  a  little  in  his  chair. 

When  the  curtain  went  down  on  the  first  act,  Evelyn 
Naesmith  turned  to  him. 

"The  world  hasn't  seen  you  for  weeks,"  she  remarked. 
"You  have  been  busy  on  another — successful  novel?" 

Her  tone  was  not  light  and  inconsequential.  West 
even  imagined  that  there  was  a  basis  of  scorn  beneath 
her  words.  He  studied  her  a  moment. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  working,"  he  answered,  a  little 
coldly.  "And  the  book  may  prove  successful." 


272  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"I  am  sure  that  it  will."  There  was  no  compliment 
implied  in  her  remark. 

West  attempted  an  easy  smile. 

"You  do  not  like  my  novels?"  he  asked,  indifferently. 

"Quite  as  much  as  you  do,"  she  said. 

West  was  about  to  respond,  but  restrained  himself. 
The  woman's  eyes  were  too  penetrating;  her  tone  had 
been  too  final.  He  knew  that  she  would  see  through  his 
deceit  if  he  attempted  to  resent  her  words,  or  to  assure 
her  of  his  sincerity.  He  felt  that  she  had  spied  on  some 
intimate  secret  in  his  nature,  and  he  could  not  ride  above 
the  sudden  wave  of  mental  embarrassment  which  swept 
over  him.  She  both  intrigued  and  angered  him. 

"Shall  you  go  on  writing  novels — always?"  She  pre 
tended  not  to  notice  his  embarrassment. 

"Probably,"  he  replied  at  once,  as  if  the  matter  was  of 
minor  importance. 

At  this  she  smiled,  and  began  toying  with  her  heavy 
jade  bracelet. 

West  watched  her.  "Does  my  work  really  interest 
you?" 

"Truly  great  men  are  so  scarce  to-day,"  she  told  him, 
with  conventional  aloofness,  "that  one  cannot  fail  to  be 
interested  by  them.  .  .  .  And  you  are  a  great  man,"  she 
added,  earnestly.  "That  is,  you  were  once." 

Her  words  startled  West.  They  also  made  him  un 
comfortable  ;  but  he  managed  to  ask,  lightly :  "You  are 
referring  to  my  first  books?" 

She  did  not  change  her  manner.  "Your  first  books — 
yes.  I  have  not  forgotten  them.  You,  unfortunately, 
have.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  is  no  need  to  pretend,  with  me.  I 
read  one  of  them  just  the  other  day — after  I  had  finished 
your  latest  novel.  You  ought  to  do  the  same." 

"I  have,"  he  confessed.    "I  did  it  this  last  week." 

"And  yet,  you  are  not  blushing!"  Her  voice  was 
mocking,  and  she  was  smiling  again.  Then  she  whimsi 
cally  quoted  a  passage  from  Verlaine: 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  273 

"Qu'as-tu  fait,  6  toi  que  voila 

Pleurant  sans  cesse 
Dis,  qu'as-tu  fait,  toi  que  voila 
De  ta  jeunesse?" 

"How  do  you  know  I  am  weeping?"  West  felt  his 
humiliation,  but  assumed  an  air  of  indifference. 

Evelyn  Naesmith  answered  merely  with  a  slight  shrug. 
The  curtain  had  risen  again.  The  man  was  relieved,  and 
turned  his  eyes,  with  simulated  interest,  to  the  perform 
ance.  But  he  saw  and  heard  little  of  it.  His  mind  was 
too  busy  with  retrospection.  From  time  to  time  he 
glanced  critically  at  the  woman  beside  him;  and  there 
was  something  in  his  eyes  that  bordered  on  longing. 
Once  she  looked  up,  as  if  she  were  conscious  of  his 
scrutiny.  She  met  his  gaze  with  an  expression  of  sor 
rowful  reprimand;  then  turned  immediately  away. 

At  supper  in  the  Savoy  that  night,  they  again  sat 
together.  A  subtle,  unspoken  intimacy  had  grown  up 
between  them.  West  no  longer  attempted  to  masquerade 
in  her  presence;  and  she,  aware  of  this  concession,  talked 
to  him  frankly,  although  there  was  little  opportunity  for 
prolonged  exchange  of  personalities.  When  they  were 
about  to  part,  she  leaned  toward  him. 

"Forgive  me  for  all  I  have  said.  I  cannot  believe  that 
you  haven't  suffered,  and  are  not  suffering.  If  I  had 
been  kind,  I  suppose,  I  should  not  have  brought  the  sub 
ject  up — I  should  have  helped  you  to  forget  it." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive."  He  spoke  almost  in- 
audibly,  as  he  helped  her  on  with  her  coat.  "I  am  glad 
I  came  to-night." 

"I  didn't  look  for  you,"  she  answered,  "especially  as 
there  was  a  Beethoven  recital  elsewhere." 

"I  was  in  no  mood  for  it,"  West  told  her.  .  .  .  "And 
you — why  did  you  not  prefer  Beethoven?" 

"It's  a  little  awkward  going  alone." 


274  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

The  members  of  their  party  were  now  at  the  door, 
where  their  carriages  awaited  them. 

"I  shall  be  at  the  Stratton's  tea  Tuesday,"  she  said, 
as  he  assisted  her  into  her  coupe. 

Others  thronged  round  them,  saying  good-night  and 
exchanging  parting  pleasantries,  and  he  had  no  oppor 
tunity  to  answer  her.  But  when  he  took  her  hand,  he 
knew  he  would  make  it  a  point  to  see  her  Tuesday. 

As  he  drove  home,  Alice  West  put  her  hand  on  his. 
He  was  startled  by  the  fact  that  he  resented  her  action. 

"The  music  was  wonderful  to-night,  wasn't  it!"  she 
exclaimed  happily.  He  did  not  answer,  save  with  a 
forced  smile;  and  she  ran  on  gaily,  talking  about  the 
opera  and  the  singers,  expressing  her  preference  for  this 
or  that  performer. 

West  listened  to  her  like  one  in  a  dream.  Her  manner 
irritated  him ;  her  words  disturbed  his  mood. 

"What  a  curious  looking  woman  Miss  Naesmith  is!" 
his  wife  remarked,  as  they  drew  near  to  their  home. 
"But  she's  very  bright — don't  you  think  so?  .  .  .  What 
in  the  world  were  you  and  she  talking  about  so  seri 
ously?" 

"My  books,"  West  answered,  coldly. 

Alice  West  smiled  contentedly. 

"I  am  so  proud  of  you!"  she  said,  taking  his  hand  in 
both  of  hers. 

That  night  West  lay  awake  a  long  time,  thinking  over 
his  new  experience.  His  resentment  of  Evelyn  Naesmith 
struggled  with  her  fascination  for  him.  Her  words  had 
not  affected  him  as  SeminofFs  letter  had  done.  His 
friend's  remarks  had  been  destructive  and  final:  they 
held  out  no  hope.  With  the  woman  it  was  different.  He 
was  aware  of  her  sympathy  and  her  personal  interest  in 
him.  Then  there  was  the  lure  of  her  sex.  Her  intellec 
tual  appeal  seemed  bound  up  in  her  physical  attractive 
ness.  He  could  not  repudiate  one  without  repudiating 
the  other ;  and  he  believed  that,  no  matter  what  she  took 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  275 

away  from  him,  she  nevertheless  was  able  to  compensate 
him.  Was  it  inspiration?  West  laughed  a  little  at  the 
idea.  Had  he  ever  been  inspired  by  women?  He  had 
found  no  help  in  Irene  Brenner.  Surely  there  had  been 
none  in  Margaret  Moore.  And  his  wife?  After  all, 
what  had  she  done  for  him?  Where  had  her  influence 
led  him?  He  had  fallen  into  decadence  because  of  her. 
His  present  sufferings  were  due  directly  to  her  love  and 
the  force  of  her  ideals.  One  by  one,  beginning  with  his 
mother,  the  women  who  had  crossed  his  life  had  taken 
something  vital  out  of  it,  and  had  replaced  that  vitality 
with  a  commodity  which  did  not  gratify  him.  Only 
recently  had  he  become  conscious  of  these  things.  And 
so  bitter  had  his  heart  grown  that,  despite  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith's  uncommonness,  he  regarded  her  with  scepticism. 
Yet  the  fact  remained  that  she  was  different,  that  her 
ideals  matched  his,  that  she  was  able  to  look  into  his  mind 
and  sense  his  despair.  Instinctively  he  knew  that  he 
needed  help,  a  source  of  solace,  a  fountain-head  from 
which  he  could  regain  the  energy  and  power  he  had  lost. 

Tuesday  he  went  to  her  without  a  thought  of  what  the 
consequences  might  be.  He  went  to  her  as  he  might  have 
gone  to  a  book  whose  passages  had  the  ability  to  fire  and 
uplift  him.  And  he  went  to  her  with  a  certain  dread,  for, 
after  all,  it  was  not  rehabilitation  he  desired,  but  some 
power  that  could  blot  out  the  memory  of  Seminoff's  let 
ter  and  set  him  back  once  again  into  the  easy  and  com 
fortable  routine  of  his  recent  life. 

There  were  many  people  at  the  tea,  and  he  was  able 
to  sit  with  her  in  an  alcove  of  the  sun-parlour  without 
being  noticed.  There  were  other  important  men  of  let 
ters  present,  and  he  was  not  so  conspicuous  as  otherwise 
he  might  have  been.  Circumstances  permitted  him  to 
be  alone  with  the  woman  for  over  half  an  hour.  She 
was  unusually  gentle.  Her  aggressive  manner  had  been 
dropped;  and,  as  West  watched  her  and  listened  to  her 
talk,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  her  customary  initia- 


276  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

tive  was  only  a  pose,  a  glass  wall  which  she  threw  up 
between  her  and  the  world.  He,  in  turn,  assumed  no 
affectation.  He  did  not  attempt  to  defend  himself  or 
his  past  actions.  He  knew  that  she  would  see  through 
any  disguise  he  might  have  adopted.  He  was  more  hon 
est  with  her  than  he  had  been  since  his  last  interview  with 
Seminoff.  The  woman  assumed,  with  naturalness,  her 
knowledge  of  him;  and  her  words  carried  the  effect  of 
genuine  sympathy. 

"I  understand  so  well  the  circumstances  of  your  life," 
she  said.  "For  years  I  have  watched  you  more  closely 
than  you  imagine.  I  watched  your  work — I  read  every 
thing  you  wrote.  I  saw  the  influences  of  your  environ 
ment  creep  into  it.  The  freedom  of  the  mind  demands 
freedom  in  actions  as  well — don't  you  see  what  I  mean?" 
She  looked  at  him  through  narrowed  lids.  "True  un 
derstanding  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world,"  she  com 
mented,  after  a  pause.  "It  implies  a  willingness  on  the 
part  of  those  who  love  you  to  sacrifice  everything,  if,  by 
so  doing,  they  can  help  you  follow  your  dream." 

"What  man  can  find  such  understanding?"  West  re 
plied,  conscious  of  the  implication  in  her  words.  "It  is 
not  as  if  we  were  merely  intellectuals.  We're  not.  Bi 
ology,  training,  instincts,  sexual  needs,  physical  appe 
tites — all  these  must  enter  into  the  problem.  Even 
should  a  man  find  a  woman  who  could  give  him  the 
mental  stimulus  he  needed,  and  who  was  willing  to  give 
up  everything  for  his  advancement,  it  would  be  a  miracle 
if  that  woman  was  also  able  to  supply  his  physical  and 
social  needs.  Life  is  a  constant  compromise  between  a 
man's  brain  and  his  body.  One  part  of  him  must  inevi 
tably  suffer." 

The  woman  did  not  reply. 

"Then  again,"  he  went  on,  "there  is  the  demand  our 
morality  of  pity  makes  on  us.  Have  we  the  right  to 
wreck  the  lives  of  those  about  us  for  our  own  personal 
gain?  A  man  who  would  deliberately  murder  those 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  277 

who  love  him  would  pay  for  it  in  suffering  and  re 
morse." 

"That  is  the  coward's  point  of  view,"  the  woman  an 
nounced  calmly.  "We  can  justify  all  weakness  on  that 
ground.  Already  the  world  has  invented  pleasing  names 
for  its  cowardices,  and  has  turned  its  weaknesses  into 
virtues."  She  looked  up.  "Do  you  convince  yourself 
by  such  hypocrisy?" 

West  thought  a  long  time. 

"Perhaps  I  don't  convince  myself,"  he  said,  at  length, 
slowly.  "But  I  am  not  sufficiently  convinced  from  the 
other  point  of  view  to  carry  out  my  desires  with  a  ruth 
less  and  devastating  hand." 

"In  other  words,"  she  supplied,  "it's  weakness,  and  not 
conviction  that  binds  you  to  mediocrity.  .  .  .  Tell  me; 
if  you  changed  your  course,  would  these  others  that  you 
speak  of  suffer  more  than  you  are  suffering?  And  is  not 
the  present  loss  to  the  world  greater  than  it  would  be  if 
you  stood  forth,  defiant  and  brutal,  and  gave  birth  to 
the  best  in  you?" 

"I  am  a  man,  and  I  can  bear  the  suffering,"  he  an 
swered,  resolutely.  "The  others  are  women,  and  they 
could  not  understand.  They  are  unable — < — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  quiet,  derisive  laugh. 

"Surely,  you  have  not  fallen  to  that  depth!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "Do  you  have  to  answer  me  with  platitudes 
and  falsehoods?  Are  you  assuming  that  I  have  a  mid 
dle-class  mind  that  will  accept  seriously  such  an  ex 
planation?  ...  I  believe  you  are  becoming  converted 
to  the  viewpoint  of  your  own  novels !" 

She  smiled  tauntingly,  and  West  felt  his  cheeks  grow 
hot  under  her  gaze. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  persisted,  "you  are  a  woman. 
Would  you  like  to  be  struck  down,  without  knowing 
why  you  had  been  dealt  the  blow — especially  if  it  came 
from  one  you  loved?" 

"I  refuse  to  be  classed  with  other  women,"  she  an- 


278  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

swered,  in  a  bantering  tone.  "However,  I  have  no  pity 
for  them.  If  they  are  too  selfish  and  stupid  to  under 
stand  the  worth-while  things  in  life,  why  should  they 
be  pampered  and  coddled  and  permitted  to  burn  others  at 
the  stake  in  order  to  insure  their  own  insignificant  se 
renity?"  She  dropped  her  light  manner,  and  said 
gravely:  "But  if  I  loved  a  man,  there  is  no  depth  of 
humiliation  and  disgrace  to  which  I  would  not  be  will 
ing  to  sink  for  him.  I  would  be  his  slave  in  everything. 
I  would  let  him  use  me  for  his  own  ends,  in  whatever 
manner  he  chose.  If  my  life  would  assure  his  success,  I 
would  give  it  to  him  gladly.  .  .  .  But  I  would  have  to 
know  that  he  was  worthy  of  it.  And  I  would  know  it — 
I  would  know  it  before  I  loved  him." 

West  regarded  her  with  a  feeling  of  awe.  A  change 
had  come  over  her.  She  no  longer  gave  forth  the  im 
pression  of  self-sufficiency.  There  was  even  humilia 
tion  in  the  attitude  of  her  body,  her  limp,  upturned 
hands,  her  slightly  bowed  head,  the  curve  of  her  back. 
Her  voice  had  rung  with  sombre  intensity;  and  it  was 
difficult  for  him  to  realize  that  the  woman  now  at  his 
side  was  the  same  one  who  had  been  scoffing  at  him  ten 
minutes  before.  All  conventions  seemed  to  have  fallen 
from  them.  Scarcely  realizing  what  he  did,  he  reached 
over  and  put  his  hand  on  the  lower  part  of  her  arm, 
which  was  bare.  For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke. 
Then  he  rose  quickly,  as  if  the  spell  which  held  him  had 
been  broken.  She  rose,  too;  and  they  walked  into  the 
main  room,  where  they  joined  the  others. 


XXVII 

FOR  the  next  two  days  West  found  it  impossible  to 
trace  the  intolerable  currents  and  cross-currents  of  his 
mind.  He  was  conscious  only  that  an  all  permeating  di 
lemma  had  entered  into  his  life.  There  was  a  constant 
conflict  between  his  wife  and  child  and  home,  on  the  one 
side,  and,  on  the  other,  some  intangible  thing  which 
made  a  wider  and  severer  demand  upon  him.  It  was 
not  merely  a  clash  between  his  love  for  his  wife,  and  his 
ambitions.  This  new  impulse  was  more  intimate,  even 
more  physical,  than  a  remote  desire  for  achievement. 
The  big,  inviting  house,  its  quiet  and  artistic  furnishings, 
the  round  of  social  diversions,  the  reiteration  of  friends 
— all  these  constitutive  elements  of  his  existence  were 
revealed  to  him  in  their  true  inconsequential  light.  They 
took  on  an  aspect  of  injustice.  They  were  impediments 
in  the  way  of  a  more  glorious  destiny.  They  frustrated 
the  exercise  of  his  greater  capacities.  He  no  longer  re 
garded  his  wife  with  tenderness  and  compassion.  She 
appeared  to  him  like  an  enemy  whose  love  was  only  a 
mantle  to  hide  her  true  nature.  She  epitomized  the  life 
of  the  unessentials,  the  life  which,  in  a  thousand  different 
ways,  aims  at  stifling  the  heroic  spirit  and  the  soaring 
intelligence  of  mankind.  Out  and  beyond  this  life,  he 
could  feel  the  urgent  callings  of  a  greater  sphere,  one 
without  trammels  or  compromise,  one  in  which  the  im 
pulses  might  escape  from  all  that  was  petty  and  unimpor 
tant.  Evelyn  Naesmith  was,  in  his  eyes,  the  feminine 
embodiment  of  this  other  life. 

West  felt  himself  drawn  to  her  by  a  profound  and 
irrevocable  fascination.  Her  attraction  for  him  was  like 

279 


280  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

nothing  he  had  experienced  before.  If  in  her  there  was 
a  sexual  appeal,  there  was  also  something  else  which 
qualified  and  modified  his  physical  desire.  She  was  the 
first  woman  with  whom  he  had  felt  entirely  at  ease,  with 
whom  he  had  not  been  called  upon  to  practise  tempera 
mental  deceits.  In  large  measure  she  compensated  for 
his  paucity  of  masculine  companionship.  He  remem 
bered  how,  immediately  after  his  marriage,  he  had  felt 
keenly  the  vacancy  left  by  Seminoff.  But  now  he  was 
aware  of  no  psychological  want.  Evelyn  Naesmith 
rounded  out  his  nature.  She  appeared  intuitively  to 
know  his  needs,  and  to  have  the  capacity  of  supplying 
»  them.  He  had  never  been  entirely  frank  with  any  other 
woman.  His  sexual  relationships  had  been  in  the  nature 
I  of  a  game ;  and  he  had  played  that  game  both  consciously 
'  and  unconsciously.  Several  times  he  had  attempted  a 
frank  and  whole-hearted  honesty  with  his  wife.  But  the 
results  of  these  adventures  into  frankness  had  been  pain 
ful,  and,  as  a  consequence,  he  had  begun  a  consistent 
drama  of  tactful  deception.  He  rarely  gave  free  rein  to 
his  moods,  and,  in  time,  came  to  view  himself  and  the 
world  from  his  wife's  standpoint.  It  was  not  until  he 
met  Evelyn  Naesmith  that  he  realized  how  far  this  self- 
deceit  had  gone.  In  her  presence  he  could  look  back  on 
himself  and  his  life  as  from  a  mountain  peak.  She  dis 
couraged  all  hypocrisy  and  sham. 

It  was  because  of  what  he  thought  the  impersonal  na 
ture  of  her  appeal  that  he  was  able  to  justify  himself  in 
seeing  her  often.  He  deliberately  planned  to  attend  teas 
and  receptions  when  he  knew  she  would  be  there.  Once 
he  even  suggested  to  his  wife  that  she  be  included  in  a 
dinner  invitation.  But  after  a  week  or  two  he  did  not 
limit  himself  to  public  meetings  with  her.  They  were 
rarely  satisfactory  because  there  were  continual  inter 
ruptions  and  a  constant  feeling  of  the  nearness  of  outside 
influences.  Their  friendship  had  developed  rapidly,  there 
being  no  conventions  of  attitude  to  overcome.  Their 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  281 

talk  rapidly  grew  more  intimate  and  personal.  One  day 
she  sent  him  a  note,  asking  him  to  tea  at  her  apartment. 
She  did  not  include  his  wife  in  the  invitation,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  words  that  made  him  believe  the 
omission  had  been  deliberate.  He  went  to  her,  and  found 
her  alone. 

"You  will  forgive  me — won't  you,  Stanford — -for  do 
ing  this?"  she  said,  extending  her  hand  as  he  entered. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  called  him  by  his 
first  name,  and  that  fact,  more  than  the  circumstances  of 
the  situation,  made  him  feel  guilty  of  disloyalty  to  his 
wife. 

"It  is  so  difficult  to  talk  when  there  are  others  around," 
she  added,  noting  his  surprise. 

Her  words  brought  back  his  affair  with  Margaret 
Moore.  This  other  woman,  too,  had  sent  for  him  and,  on 
the  same  pretext,  had  received  him  alone.  But  only  in  the 
externals  did  he  sense  any  parallelism  between  the  two 
episodes. 

"I  might  not  have  come,"  he  told  her,  smiling  lightly, 
"had  I  known  this  beforehand.  But,  now  that  I  am  here, 
I  shall  not  scold  you." 

Evelyn  Naesmith's  apartment  had  an  air  of  unconven 
tional  richness.  The  living-room  was  lined  with  books. 
The  walls  were  a  warm  grey,  and  the  heavy,  patternless 
carpet  was  grey  also.  Each  piece  of  furniture  was  an 
odd  bit  of  Oriental  carving,  exotic  in  shape  and  char 
acter.  There  were  many  oil  paintings  about — distorted 
figure  compositions,  bizarre  modern  landscapes,  allegor 
ical  pieces,  brilliant  scenes  from  the  South  Sea  Islands. 
Two  great  carved  figures  of  horses  in  ebony — specimens 
of  the  architectonic  art  of  Egypt — stood  at  either  side 
of  the  door.  An  antique  predella,  filled  with  primitive 
figures,  rested  on  the  mantel,  and  extended  to  the  ceil 
ing. 

An  Indian  servant,  in  his  native  costume,  wheeled  in  a 
service  of  Turkish  coffee,  and  withdrew  immediately. 


282  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

West  now,  for  the  first  time,  became  conscious  of  the 
woman's  physical  appeal.  He  had  almost  convinced  him 
self  that  he  regarded  her  solely  as  an  intellectual  entity, 
and  that  her  sex  was  incidental.  He  now  knew  this  to 
be  false,  and  became  suddenly  aware  of  the  danger  of 
their  relationship.  During  his  married  life  his  sexual 
nature  had  approached  quiescence.  Like  his  outlook, 
it  had  become  conventionalized.  Of  late  he  had  looked 
upon  his  early  love  affairs  as  imaginative  extravagances 
of  youth.  Sensualism  seemed  too  remote,  even  for  spec 
ulation,  from  his  new  order  of  existence.  His  sense  of 
obligatory  loyalty  to  his  family  had  played  a  large  part 
in  the  subjugation  of  his  physical  impulses.  Just  as  the 
influences  of  his  mature  life  had  dominated  the  pas 
sions  of  his  mind,  so  had  they  dominated  the  passions 
of  his  body.  But  now,  without  warning,  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith  had  again  started  the  hot  stirrings  in  his  blood. 
The  swift  emotions,  which  for  years  had  lain  dormant, 
assailed  him  with  their  old  vigour.  Time  fell  from  him 
like  a  cloak ;  the  intoxications  of  sex  which  had  haunted 
him  in  his  university  days  began  once  more  their  dis 
quieting  activities.  And  simultaneously  his  old  intellec 
tual  desires  leapt  into  life.  His  stimulated  body  seemed 
to  act  as  an  incitement  to  his  brain. 

Evelyn  Naesmith  poured  his  coffee  in  silence,  and 
passed  it  to  him. 

"Surely,  you  are  not  going  to  be  guilty  of  conventional 
regrets/'  she  remarked,  reprovingly.  "You  are  not  alien 
ated  from  your  early  ideals  to  that  extent,  are  you  ?  You 
wrote  searchingly  on  the  meretriciousness  of  conventions 
once.  I  had  thought — even  hoped — that  the  present 
change  in  you  was  superficial,  not  fundamental." 

West  was  slightly  abashed.  He  could  not  deny  her 
point  of  view  unless  he  repudiated  all  his  inner  beliefs; 
and,  for  the  moment,  these  beliefs  were  stronger  than 
his  instincts  of  propriety. 

"What  can  I  say?"  he  answered  wearily.    "Every  de- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  283 

sire  in  me  bids  me  obey  you.  It  is  foolish  to  attempt  se 
crecy  with  you.  You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
who  knows  my  tragedy.  But  why  should  you  seek  to 
take  advantage  of  it?" 

"The  peaceful  dreamer,  perhaps,  resents  being  roused 
to  a  life  of  action?"  She  looked  at  him,  a  bit  craftily. 
"Are  you,  after  all,  a  lotus-eater?" 

"An  enforced  lotus-eater,  perhaps."  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  and  looked  directly  ahead  of  him.  "I  be 
lieve  there  comes  a  time  when  the  drug  victim  is  insus 
ceptible  to  cure.  In  that  event,  the  sufferings  of  at 
tempted  rehabilitation  are  only  futile.  .  .  .  You  see,  if  I 
had  met  you  years  ago " 

"Before  you  were  married?" 

"Just  that!"  He  swung  round  and  leaned  toward  her. 
"With  you,  there  is  nothing  I  could  not  have  done.  Your 
mind  stimulates  me.  My  brain  works  easily  when  I  am 
with  you — it  is  free  of  trammels." 

"And  the — other  part  of  you?"  Her  voice  was  low: 
her  eyes  turned  to  him,  slowly  and  mesmerically. 

He  rose  quickly,  like  a  man  who  finds  himself  falling 
into  hypnosis  and  recovers  himself  at  the  brink  of  his 
coma. 

"Don't!"  he  commanded,  brusquely.  "You  know  my 
answer  to  that  question,  without  my  putting  it  into 
words.  You  knew  it,  probably,  before  I  did  myself." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  scorn,  "as  well  as  I  knew 
the  impulses  which  have  kept  you  bound  to  a  trivial  and 
weakly  existence  of  law-abiding  negation  and  second- 
rate  prosperity." 

"I  am  afraid  those  impulses  have  become  too  strong  to 
be  overcome  now."  His  words  were  spoken  with  embit 
tered  finality.  Then  he  added :  "Even  by  you." 

"You  need  not  soften  your  confession  of  cowardice 
with  a  compliment."  There  was  still  a  little  scorn  in  her 
voice.  "The  only  thing  that  stands  in  the  way  of  your 
future  is  your  own  lethargy  of  character." 


284  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

During  the  past  weeks  West  had  been  cognizant  of 
this  truth.  More  and  more  he  had  grown  to  feel 
his  ability  to  do  great  things.  What  he  needed,  he  told 
himself,  was  a  proper  environment  where  his  hopes  for 
an  understanding  and  a  reciprocity  in  the  spiritual  com 
panionship  for  which  he  longed,  would  be  fulfilled.  He 
realized  that  it  had  been  the  hopelessness  of  his  life's 
outlook  under  the  influence  of  Alice  West  that  had  smoth 
ered  the  ambitions  of  his  earlier  days ;  and  it  was  now  im 
possible  for  him  to  deny  the  rejuvenating  faith  of  Evelyn 
Naesmith.  The  basic  urgings  in  his  being  were  toward 
combat.  He  knew,  too,  that  after  his  marriage  his  strug 
gles  had  been  mere  mechanical  operations,  with  but  oc 
casional  bursts  of  that  old  unquenchable  energy  which 
had  permeated  his  younger  years.  But  during  his  brief 
intimacy  with  the  woman  now  before  him,  the  old  flame 
had  burned,  the  old  ambitions  dominated.  There  was 
a  consciousness  of  kind  and  a  like-mindedness  between 
them ;  and  also  there  was  that  primitive  unintellectual  at 
traction  which  reaches  out  blindly  in  its  hunger. 

He  sat  down,  and  for  some  time  gazed  at  her  steadily 
across  the  table  before  answering  her  remark. 

"You  have  reversed  the  order  of  things."  He  spoke  at 
length,  affectedly.  "Should  I  not  be  the  one  to  coerce  ?" 

"Please  don't,  Stanford!"  she  cried,  pleadingly.  It 
was  his  tone  and  manner  that  she  resented. 

He  understood  her  well,  for  he  had  been  aware  of  the 
cheapness  of  his  words  the  moment  they  had  been  ut 
tered. 

In  the  silence  that  had  followed  her  appeal  they  had 
been  precipitated  onto  a  different  plane.  Their  love  for 
each  other  was  as  common  knowledge  as  if  both  had 
confessed  it  openly.  West's  hand  dropped  to  the  table, 
and  his  head  fell  forward. 

"I  know  it  is  hard."  The  woman  spoke  softly.  "I 
know  how  you  feel — now.  ...  It  would  mean  ostra- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  285 

cism.  But  ostracism  by  whom?  Those  beneath  you, 
those  whose  ideals  are  beneath  yours." 

She  looked  at  him,  but  he  did  not  move.  Gently  she 
put  her  hand  on  his.  He  held  it  firmly  for  a  moment, 
releasing  it  with  a  quick  impulsive  movement.  The  con 
tact  had  thrilled  him.-  He  knew,  with  ultimate  truth, 
the  greatness  of  his  possibilities.  He  had  felt  it  for 
the  one  brief  instant  when  his  fingers  clung  to  hers;  and 
the  revelation  stunned  him. 

"What  folly — what  diabolical  folly!"  he  murmured, 
as  if  to  himself. 

She  regarded  him  eagerly. 

"And  now — what  of  my  suffering  if  you  deny  me  your 
love?"  she  asked. 

"You  knew — beforehand — the  futility  of  such  a 
thing,"  he  argued.  "You  have  no  right  to  blame  me. 
But  the  other  one  did  not  know.  She  has  given  me  the 
best  of  which  she  is  capable.  Must  she  be  disgraced  be 
cause  she  has  fallen  short,  through  no  fault  of  hers?" 

"Think  of  what  you  are  saying!"  The  woman  moved 
nearer  to  him.  "Then  recall  the  things  you  once  wrote." 

"Don't  make  it  hard  for  me,"  West  begged.  "My  wife 
has  never  given  me  cause  to  say  one  word  against  her. 
She  has  lived  up  to  her  duty  as  she  has  seen  it.  She 
gives  me  all  she  has  to  give — a  great  and  trusting  love. 
But  she  does  not  understand  my  deeper  needs.  It  is 
nothing  against  her  that  she  cannot  see  as  far  as  you  can. 
She  has  imposed  a  debt  on  me." 

"Then,  why  are  you  here  with  me  now?"  Before  he 
could  answer,  she  reached  over  and  took  his  hand  again. 
"Ah!  Can  you  deny  that  you  love  me?" 

"No!"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  should  I  deny  it?  It 
would  be  the  basest  falsehood.  I  want  nothing  in  the 
world  so  much  as  I  want  you.  In  you  lies  my  salvation." 

She  buried  her  head  in  her  arm,  and  drew  his  fingers 
to  her  lips.  After  a  moment  she  glanced  up,  her  face 
flushed. 


286  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"And  I  love  you — irrevocably — eternally,"  she 
breathed.  "Your  duty — our  duty — lies  toward  the 
world,  in  what  you  can  give  it.  For  that  I  am  willing  to 
do  whatever  you  say — to  go  with  you  wherever  you  wish 
me  to  go." 

He  studied  her  longingly.  The  twilight  had  settled 
about  them.  A  mist  of  passion  hung  over  her  eyes. 

From  the  other  room  there  came  a  slight  noise  as  of 
someone  lighting  the  lamps.  Then  a  roseate  glow  fell 
through  the  Venetian  glass  panels  of  the  door.  It  seemed 
to  call  West  back  to  the  bleak  realities  as  from  the  ecstasy 
of  a  dream. 

He  arose  unsteadily. 

"I  must  go  now."    His  voice  was  unnatural. 

"Not  yet,"  she  pleaded,  coming  close  to  him. 

She  watched  him  waver;  and  all  the  while  she  was 
reading  his  mind,  plainly,  unmistakably.  She  knew  that 
he  was  fighting  against  the  impulses  which  held  men  cap 
tive  to  the  motives  of  comfortable  inanition,  that  he  was 
nearer  the  brink  of  indecision  than  he  thought  she  even 
guessed.  Intuition  told  her  that  no  words  of  hers  could 
add  strength  to  either  of  the  conflicting  forces  within 
him;  so  she  waited,  her  breast  rising  and  falling  quickly 
under  the  stress  of  excited  sorrow. 

West  caught  the  magnetism  of  her  body.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  to  him.  For  a  long  time  he 
held  her  thus,  and  then  put  her  away  from  him  roughly. 

"That's  the  end !"  he  said,  and  went  out. 


XXVIII 

FOR  over  a  week  West  clung  to  his  resolution  not  to 
see  her  again.  He  suffered  much;  he  was  unable  to 
work,  for  he  could  not  concentrate  his  mind  even  on  the 
facile  occupation  of  novel  writing.  So  completely  had  he 
lost  interest  in  his  writing  that  he  believed  he  never 
again  would  be  able  to  supply  the  demands  of  his  mar 
ket.  He  was  unfitted  for  going  on  as  he  had  been,  and 
he  was  unable  to  obey  his  impulse  for  serious  labour. 
He  realized  that  matters  could  not  continue  in  their  pres 
ent  state;  yet  he  could  arrive  at  no  conclusive  course  of 
action.  He  believed  he  was  drifting  surely  toward  some 
momentous  climax,  but  the  exact  nature  of  it  he  was 
unable  to  determine.  The  only  fact  which  was  clear  to 
him  was  that  life  had  become  unmerciful  and  severe. 
And  the  longer  he  remained  away  from  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith,  the  more  insupportable  it  grew. 

He  determined  on  a  temporary  compromise.  He 
would  not  give  up  his  wife  and  his  daughter,  and  he  could 
not  give  up  the  other  woman.  He  went  to  her  again 
clandestinely.  He  tried  to  explain  to  her  his  predicament, 
but  she  halted  him. 

"I  know  all  you  are  going  to  say,"  she  remarked  hope 
lessly.  "You  want  me,  but  you  are  unwilling  to  pay 
the  price  of  having  me.  Therefore,  I  am  to  have  only  a 
part  of  you.  I  am  to  be  content  with  an  intrigue  of 
secrecy.  .  .  .  Well,  I  love  you  enough  to  accept  even 
that."' 

She  did  not  urge  him  to  alter  his  decision.  She  did 
not  so  much  as  find  fault  with  him.  She  treated  him  as 
if  he  were  a  child  who  needed  guidance  and  comfort  and 

287 


288  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

protection.    She  accepted  the  situation  on  his  own  terms. 

After  that,  he  saw  her  often.  More  and  more  he  felt 
the  need  of  her.  They  met  regularly  in  public,  at  the 
houses  of  friends,  even  at  his  own  house.  Under  this 
last  condition  she  sensed  his  guilty  humiliation,  and,  after 
one  or  two  visits,  graciously  declined  all  of  Alice  West's 
invitations.  West  understood  these  refusals,  and  was 
grateful  to  her.  But  less  than  ever  did  he  find  pleasure 
in  being  with  her  in  the  company  of  others.  The  falsity 
of  their  formal  meetings  were  distasteful  to  him.  His 
feeling  of  culpability  was  such  that  he  was  uncomfort 
able  whenever  necessity  demanded  the  dishonesty  of  at 
titudinizing.  As  a  result,  he  spent  much  of  his  time  alone 
with  her  in  her  apartment,  and  his  visits  grew  more  fre 
quent  as  time  went  by  and  their  intimacy  grew.  His 
wife  did  not  question  his  absences.  She  trusted  him  im 
plicitly.  In  their  relationship  there  had  always  been 
a  reserve  and  formality  which  permitted  him  a  freer 
range  of  action  than  had  all  barriers  been  down.  Once, 
however,  he  had  had  to  lie  to  her.  Not  only  did  this 
pain  him,  but  it  impressed  upon  him  the  injustice  of  his 
surreptitiousness. 

West  did  not  find  the  satisfaction  in  Evelyn  Naesmith 
that  he  thought  would  be  his.  He  was  too  unsettled; 
too  many  conflicting  demands  were  being  made  upon 
him.  His  hours  with  her  were  merely  oases  in  the  long 
stretches  of  his  social  desert.  It  became  increasingly  dif 
ficult  for  him  to  go  from  her  when  the  hour  grew  late. 
When  he  was  away  from  her,  he  was  more  miserable 
than  he  had  been  before  she  came  into  his  life.  The  ten 
der  attitude  of  his  wife  disconcerted  him.  The  pres 
ence  of  his  child  caused  him  pangs  of  unhappiness.  His 
home  became  little  more  than  a  necessary  refuge  in 
which  to  house  himself  between  those  rare,  peaceful 
evenings  when  he  drove  out  to  Chelsea  to  the  woman 
he  had  come  to  love. 

In  his  eagerness  and  longing  to  be  with  her,  he  be- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  289 

came  less  and  less  discreet.  One  day  he  had  motored 
with  her  to  Kew  Gardens  and  had  dined  with  her  in  a 
little  inn  in  Surrey.  He  had  seen  no  one  he  knew;  but 
during  the  following  week  he  heard  that  several  people 
had  spoken  casually  of  his  interest  in  the  woman.  After 
that  he  was  more  careful.  But  he  could  not  undo  his 
former  indiscretion,  and,  because  of  his  prominence  and 
the  atmosphere  of  mystery  which  had  always  hung  over 
Evelyn  Naesmith,  there  were  many  who  were  willing, 
even  eager,  to  talk  on  the  slightest  cause.  This  cause  he 
had  given  them ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  was  the 
subject  of  considerable  good-natured  gossip.  Once,  as  he 
had  entered  the  lounge  room  at  the  club,  he  had  over 
heard  his  name  mentioned  and,  shortly  afterward,  the 
name  of  Evelyn  Naesmith.  He  had  no  definite  proof 
that  the  men  whose  words  he  had  caught  were  discussing 
his  unconventional  alliance ;  but,  when  he  approached,  the 
men  suddenly  ceased  their  talk,  and  rose  to  greet  him 
with  an  effusiveness  not  altogether  spontaneous. 

After  that  he  began  to  wonder  if  any  rumours  had 
come  to  his  wife,  and  watched  her  closely  for  any  word 
or  action  which  might  indicate  that  she  had  heard  of  his 
affair  with  the  woman.  After  a  week  he  was  convinced 
that  she  was  innocent  of  the  talk  going  on  about  her. 
He  was  astonished  a  little  later  at  the  fact  that  her  inno 
cence  caused  him  disappointment  and  uneasiness.  His 
instinct  was  toward  honesty,  and  one  night  he  wondered 
if  it  was  not  better  for  his  wife  to  know  at  least  a  part 
of  the  real  facts.  It  was  his  scrupulousness,  not  his  wis 
dom,  which  had  motivated  this  speculation ;  and  the  next 
morning  he  decided  that  her  ignorance  was,  after  all,  the 
best  thing. 

Yet  he  worried  as  to  how  the  affair  would  end.  He 
tried  to  convince  himself  that  the  problem  would  be 
solved  without  scandal,  but  no  definite  possibilities  pre 
sented  themselves.  Of  cours.e,  Alice  West  might  die. 
That  thought  came  to  him  one  night  on  his  way  home 


29o  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

from  Evelyn  Naesmith.  He  was  horrified  that  he  should 
have  thought  of  it,  and  a  tremendous  emotion  of  crim 
inal  remorse  arose  in  him  when  he  discovered  that  se 
cretly  he  would  have  welcomed  such  an  escape  from  his 
difficulties.  Had  it  been  within  his  power  to  bring  about 
such  an  event,  he  would  have  shrunk  from  it  as  from  a 
grossly  flagitious  act,  but,  when  he  contemplated  her 
death  as  the  result  of  an  unescapable  destiny,  he  experi 
enced  an  involuntary  sensation  of  relief.  He  felt  that 
there  was  treachery  in  his  attitude,  and  the  fact  grieved 
him;  but  he  was  unable  to  put  it  from  him,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  his  wife's  possible  death  became  with 
him  a  formulated  hope. 

Once,  when  he  was  attending  a  dinner  at  the  club,  a 
page  hurried  up  to  him  and  informed  him  that  he  was 
wanted  immediately  on  the  telephone.  The  unusualness 
of  the  event  brought  at  once  to  his  mind  the  suggestion 
of  some  serious  catastrophe  of  which  his  wife  was  the 
victim.  Excusing  himself,  he  answered  the  call  in  a  state 
of  mind  wherein  fear  and  pleasurable  expectancy  were 
equally  mingled.  It  was  with  a  shock  of  disappointment 
that  he  heard  Alice  West's  voice  answering  him.  The 
matter  for  which  she  had  called  him  was  of  small  rela 
tive  importance;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  was 
overcast  with  a  spirit  of  melancholy.  For  a  week  there 
after  he  hated  himself  for  these  emotions,  and  his  reac 
tion  took  the  form  of  unusual  tenderness  and  devotion 
toward  the  woman  he  had  vowed  to  love  and  cherish. 
He  was  conscious  of  having  done  her  a  great,  inexplicable 
injury,  and  he  sought  to  compensate  her  for  it  by  in 
numerable  minor  attentions. 

The  days  passed  without  so  much  as  a  rift  in  the  ambi 
ent  gloom  of  the  situation.  He  was  sinking  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  sloughs  of  a  tragic  predicament.  And, 
to  make  matters  worse,  the  gossip  about  him,  which  had 
started  in  frivolous  tone,  gradually  changed  its  character. 
It  became  more  or  less  serious  and,  in  some  instances, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  291 

disagreeable.  People  no  longer  joked  about  his  interest 
in  Evelyn  Naesmith.  They  now  commenced  to  con 
demn  his  actions. 

The  woman  herself  was  not  unaware  of  what  was  be 
ing  said,  although  she  had  refrained  from  mentioning 
it  to  West.  But  finally  one  night  she  brought  up  the 
subject. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  asked  him,  at  the  end  of  a  futile 
discussion,  "that  this  thing  cannot  go  on  as  it  is?  The 
little  world  we  live  in  will  make  it  impossible  for  us  to 
continue.  We  are  face  to  face  with  the  necessity  of  some 
definite  decision.  I  needn't  tell  you  that." 

West  thought  a  long  time.  Every  answer  that  pre 
sented  itself  to  him  was  conventional  and  ineffectual. 

"Evelyn,"  he  said,  at  length,  desperately,  "you  know 
as  well  as  I,  that  there  is  a  difference  in  the  codes  of  mor 
als  that  determine  the  character  of  a  man  and  woman. 
A  woman  may  change  her  mind,  deliberately  lie,  wan 
tonly  break  contracts  into  a  thousand  pieces,  but,  so  long 
as  she  remains  virtuous  as  men  apply  the  word,  just  so 
long  is  she  revered.  A  man,  on  the  other  hand,  is  judged 
by  his  adherence  to  the  clauses  of  a  compact  into  which 
he  enters.  His  chastity,  like  a  woman's  integrity,  is  con 
sidered  secondary.  If  it  were  not  for  my  oaths,  this 
night  would  be  the  beginning  of  a  new  and  splendid  ex 
istence.  I  have  no  God,  no  religion,  save  my  word  and 
what  it  embodies." 

She  held  up  a  restraining  hand. 

"Don't  go  on — don't  lower  yourself  to  such  a  level! 
You  are  indeed  desperate  if  you  must  resort  to  such 
petty  sophistry." 

"I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  he  answered  in  a  low 
voice.  "Of  course,  those  are  not  my  reasons  for  hesi 
tating." 

"Your  one  reason  is  weakness,"  she  answered  him, 
angrily,  "a  weakness  which  has  been  forced  upon  you 


292  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

by  others.  .  .  .  And  as  for  promises — is  it  impossible  for 
you  to  be  released  from  your  obligations?" 

He  stared  at  her,  amazed. 

"You  would  have  me  tell  her !" 

"Why  not?" 

He  rose  with  sudden  resolution. 

"I  shall  come  back  to  you  to-morrow."  He  spoke  in 
a  strained,  determined  voice. 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast  he  went  into  the 
library  with  his  wife. 

"I  am  going  to  have  a  little  heart-to-heart  talk  with 
you,"  he  said.  His  manner  was  severe,  and  his  face  was 
drawn  from  lack  of  sleep. 

"I'd  love  that,  dear,"  Alice  West  answered,  with 
semi-lightness.  "We  see  so  little  of  each  other  these 
days.  Sometimes,  I  wish  we  were  just  poor  people,  liv 
ing  back  in  Greenwood." 

"I  have  come  to  the  conclusion,"  he  began,  ignoring 
her  comments,  "that  I  want  to  write  a  different  kind  of 
book  from  my  novels — the  kind  that  once  made  you  un 
happy." 

She  looked  at  him,  startled,  without  speaking. 

"I  feel  that  I  must  write  them,"  West  continued. 
"And  you  know  what  that  will  mean.  It  will  mean  a 
change  in  our  lives.  It  will  mean  a  loss  of  friends.  It 
will  mean  deprivation  and  sacrifices.  It  will  even  mean, 
perhaps,  that  I  must  go  away  where  I  will  be  entirely  free 
to  think  and  plan.  ...  Do  you  love  me  enough  to  agree 
to  that?" 

She  had  been  watching  him  in  pained  amazement. 
There  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  earnestness  of  his  resolve. 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  my  love  for  you,  dear."  Her 
grief  was  poignant  and  manifested  itself  in  her  voice. 
"It's  a  question  of  your  love  for  me.  Would  you  be  will 
ing  to  sacrifice  deliberately  all  that  you  have  gained,  all 
that  I  mean  to  you,  our  home,  our  little  girl — everything, 
for  the  sake  of  a  few  books  which  would  bring  you  only 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  293 

disgrace  ?  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  it  is  not  for  me  to  make  the 
decision?  It  rests  with  your  own  conscience.  You  will 
do  whatever  you  decide.  .  .  .  And  yet — and  yet,  I  don't 
believe  you  will  do  what  you  say.  I  don't  believe  you  will 
throw  away  your  greatness,  and  ruin  yourself  and — us. 
If  you  do,  I  know  you  will  regret  it.  You  will  pay  with 
the  most  terrible  suffering." 

West  resented  her  words.  They  embittered  him  to 
ward  her.  They  seemed  shallow  and  lacking  in  all  com 
prehension  of  his  needs.  They  acted  on  him  like  an  ar 
gument  against  her,  and  in  favour  of  his  own  desires. 
Why  should  he  be  under  obligation  to  her  when  she  was 
ignorant  of  his  very  animating  instincts?  What  right 
had  she  to  bind  him  to  a  life  against  which  he  revolted? 
Even  though  she  could  not  understand  him,  should  she 
not  be  willing  to  accept  him  on  faith — to  follow  blindly 
where  he  might  choose  to  lead,  to  give  herself  over  into 
his  keeping,  to  make  whatever  sacrifices  he  demanded? 

He  rose,  and  walked  slowly  round  in  front  of  her. 

"Suppose "  his  voice  was  firm,  and  his  eyes  held 

hers — "suppose  I  wanted  to  go  away  with  someone  who 
understood  my  aspirations  and  who  was  willing  to  accept 
the  disgrace  that  went  with  their  fulfilment?" 

"Stanford!"  His  wife's  body  seemed  to  go  limp,  and 
she  looked  at  him  as  if  he  had  turned  suddenly  into  a 
monster. 

He  realized  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  be  de 
cisive.  He  must  either  repudiate  his  words  as  the  emana 
tions  of  a  fantastic  mood,  or  he  must  go  on  and  tell  her 
the  truth.  He  did  not  hesitate  now.  He  almost  hated 
the  woman  before  him.  He  received  actual  stimulation 
from  her  obvious  suffering. 

"Listen!"  he  said,  almost  roughly.  "I  have  come  to 
you  and  I  have  tried  to  make  you  understand.  I  have 
given  you  every  chance.  For  years  you  have  thwarted 
every  aspiring  instinct  of  my  being.  You  have  held  me 
down  to  a  life  of  pettiness.  Your  influence  has  forced 


294  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

me  to  write  what  was  abhorrent  to  me.  You  are  ac 
countable  for  my  spiritual  degradation — Oh,  I  am  not 
blaming  you!  You  knew  no  better.  But  the  fact  re 
mains  that  you  have  robbed  me  of  the  highest  and  the 
best  within  me.  I  have  become  a  cheap  popular  idol  to 
gratify  your  vanity — the  vanity  which  is  in  every  good 
and  noble  woman  like  you.  You  have  bankrupted  my 
youth.  You  have  made  me  a  slave,  just  as  truly  as  if  you 
had  put  me  in  chains.  ...  I  can  stand  it  no  longer.  I 
have  found  a  woman  who  does  not  want  from  me  the 
things  that  you  want,  who  is  willing  to  suffer  isolation 
and  ostracism,  disgrace  and  humiliation,  for  the  sake 
of  my  rehabilitation — a  woman  who  understands  the  in 
nermost  promptings  of  my  nature — a  thing  you  have 
never  understood.  She  has  opened  my  eyes  to  my  con 
temptible  weakness,  to  my  cowardly  evasion  of  the  ulti 
mate  realities.  She  is  willing  to  sacrifice  all  she  has  for 
my  sake  if  I  will  give  up  the  horrible  hypocrisy  of  my 
present  existence.  .  .  .  Now  you  know  the  truth." 

He  glared  at  her  in  a  kind  of  frantic  triumph. 

Alice  West's  hands  dropped  to  her  lap.  Her  eyelids 
drooped  a  little,  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  sagged  as 
with  the  exhaustion  of  illness.  She  regarded  her  hus 
band  with  infinite  pity.  She  was  like  a  mother  who  had 
discovered  that  her  only  son  was  a  criminal. 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  Stanford?"  Her 
voice  was  tender  and  forgiving. 

Shame  consumed  him,  and  his  eyes  fell  before  hers. 

"What  is  thereto  do?" 

"You  will  go  away  with  her,"  his  wife  said,  simply 
and  hopelessly,  "and  if  you  want  me  to  divorce  you  and 
leave  you  free,  I  shall  do  that,  too.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  al 
ways  love  you — and  pray  that  your  sorrow  and  regret 
— will  not — be  too  great " 

Tears  poured  from  her  eyes  unheeded. 

West  tried  to  reply,  but  agony  constricted  his  throat. 
He  went  from  her  without  a  word. 


XXIX 

Two  days  later  West  and  Evelyn  Naesmith  went  to 
Paris.  The  debacle  of  Alice  West's  life  had  been  swift 
and  complete.  She  had  had  two  interviews  with  her  hus 
band  before  he  went  away.  They  were  brief  and  de 
void  of  any  emotional  outbursts.  An  agreement  as  to 
what  course  each  would  pursue  had  been  arrived  at,  or, 
rather,  West  had  suggested  what  he  thought  best,  and 
his  wife  had  agreed  humbly,  without  so  much  as  a  ten 
tative  protestation.  Obviously,  her  life  in  London  would 
be  impossible  after  her  husband's  departure.  She  was  to 
return  to  America  at  once,  taking  the  child  with  her,  to 
establish  a  new  home  with  West's  mother.  When  a  year 
had  passed,  she  was  to  follow  her  own  inclination  as  to 
whether  or  not  she  desired  a  divorce.  They  discussed 
the  matter  calmly,  with  the  child  as  the  basis  of  consid 
eration.  West  did  not  demand  the  sacrifice  of  a  legal 
separation,  leaving  the  decision  entirely  in  her  hands. 
Personally  he  cared  little  one  way  or  another.  Evelyn 
Naesmith,  he  knew,  would  make  no  conventional  de 
mands  on  him,  and  if  it  was  possible  for  his  wife  to  bene 
fit  herself  and  child  by  deception,  he  agreed  to  put  no 
obstacle  in  her  way. 

The  financial  and  business  details  connected  with  clos 
ing  his  affairs  in  London  were  placed  in  professional 
hands.  All  the  necessary  instructions  regarding  packing 
and  shipments  were  left  to  an  agent  who  would  assume 
full  responsibility  and  relieve  Alice  West  of  any  annoy 
ance  which  might  arise.  West  turned  over  his  entire  es 
tate  in  his  wife's  name.  It  was  not  a  large  estate,  for  he 
had  lived  nearly  up  to  the  limit  of  his  income;  but  he 

295 


296  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

deemed  it  sufficient  to  guarantee  his  family  ease  and  com 
fort  for  many  years  to  come.  When  it  should  be  entirely 
dissipated,  he  believed  vaguely  that  he  would  again  be 
able  to  give  her  financial  aid. 

These  affairs  being  settled,  he  went  at  once  to  Paris. 
Evelyn  Naesmith  had  lived  much  of  her  life  in  the 
French  capital,  and  West  himself  was  not  altogether  a 
stranger  to  that  city.  Both  understood  thoroughly  the 
nature  of  the  life  which  lay  before  them,  and  the  cir 
cumstances  under  which  their  destiny  was  to  be  worked 
out.  They  decided  on  the  quarter  of  Paris  in  which 
they  wished  to  live,  and,  since  it  was  now  drawing  to 
ward  the  end  of  September,  when  leases  were  issued,  they 
did  not  have  to  wait  in  order  to  establish  themselves  per 
manently.  They  found  a  pleasant  and  desirable  apart 
ment  on  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs,  almost  within 
sight  of  the  Petit  Luxembourg  and  the  Fontaine  Car- 
peaux.  The  main  room  was  a  large  atelier  giving  on  to 
a  small  Italian  garden.  There  was  a  spacious  soupente 
from  which  one  could  enter  the  smaller  rooms.  A  cir 
cular  stairway  had  been  built  up  from  the  main  room  to 
the  balcony,  behind  which  was  a  small  salon.  The  apart 
ment  was  so  arranged,  by  means  of  a  rear  stairway  and 
an  extra  entrance  from  the  garden,  that  the  studio  could 
be  kept  isolated,  as  much  so  as  if  it  had  been  in  another 
building. 

"This  is  to  be  your  retreat,  dear,"  Evelyn  Naesmith 
told  West,  when  they  had  first  stood  in  it  together.  "You 
can  be  alone  whenever  you  wish,  and  as  long  as  you  wish. 
I  will  always  be  near  you,  and  when  you  want  me,  you 
can  come  to  me.  .  .  .  This  room  shall  be  the  scene  of 
your  great  work.  Out  of  it  shall  come  splendid,  daring 
books." 

West  was  not  entirely  happy.  He  could  not  shake 
from  him  the  memory  of  his  wife.  He  could  not  stifle 
his  regrets  or  quench  the  sense  of  tragedy  which  had 
hung  over  him  since  the  morning  he  had  gone  to  Alice 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  297 

West  and  confessed  his  love  for  this  other  woman.  But 
the  step  had  now  been  taken :  there  was  no  turning  back, 
and  he  endeavoured  to  convince  himself  that  time  would 
heal  his  pain.  In  his  misery  he  was  buoyed  up  by  the 
immediate  prospects  of  his  new  life.  The  hot  aspiration 
to  work  fortified  his  mind  with  subtle  intoxications. 
The  calm  and  invigorating  presence  of  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith  strengthened  him  and  gave  him  confidence.  He 
was  resolved  now  to  fight  and  struggle  toward  that  goal 
which  had  once  been  emblazoned  across  the  skies  of  his 
youth. 

The  winter  passed  quickly  and  serenely.  His  life  was 
almost  commonplace  in  its  unevent  fulness.  One  day  in 
the  late  autumn  Evelyn  Naesmith  had  encountered  acci 
dentally  an  old  acquaintance,  the  editor  of  a  somewhat 
radical  but  influential  Revue.  This  man  had  been  one 
of  the  first  to  protest  against  the  cry  of  "communard" 
which  had  gone  up  at  Cezanne's  entrance  into  the  field  of 
painting,  and  the  younger  revolutionary  artists  had  been 
taken  under  his  protecting  wing  and  treated  with  cour 
tesy  and  consideration  when  their  work  warranted  it. 
He  had  clashed  with  the  critics  on  the  subject  of  such 
composers  as  Strauss  and  Debussy.  In  the  literary  field, 
as  well,  he  had  opened  his  pages  to  all  serious  modern 
effort.  He  was  well  along  in  years,  and  in  his  youth  had 
won  the  Prix  de  Rome.  The  dignity  of  his  age  and  bear 
ing  lent  weight  to  his  publication,  and  he  had  been  called 
the  aesthetic  father  of  the  younger  iconoclasts. 

West  was  astonished  to  learn  that  this  man  was  not 
ignorant  of  his  early  books,  and,  in  the  months  following 
their  first  meeting,  they  had  visited  each  other  often.  As 
a  result,  West  had  met  a  number  of  the  men  who  were 
quietly  and  seriously  attempting  to  revolutionize  the  art 
of  the  schools.  As  often  as  once  a  week,  there  had  been 
informal  gatherings  of  four  or  five  of  the  heretical  lead 
ers,  either  at  his  studio,  or  at  the  offices  of  the  Revue. 
Then  there  had  been  concerts  by  semi-private  orchestras, 


298  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

unofficial  exhibitions  of  paintings,  and  subscription  the 
atricals  at  which  the  plays  of  unpopular  dramatists  were 
produced.  These  diversions  were  his  sole  reactions 
against  the  monotony  of  hard  work. 

As  he  had  hoped,  a  curtain  of  distance  and  time  fell 
between  him  and  his  past.  He  recovered  quickly  from 
his  grief.  The  memory  of  his  life  with  Alice  West  had 
become  a  mere  mirage.  It  lost  its  intimacy,  growing 
more  and  more  impersonal.  He  was  completely  absorbed 
in  his  labours.  The  freedom  of  his  new  existence  pro 
duced  a  corresponding  freedom  in  his  mind.  The  old 
doubts  and  longings  were  dispersed,  and  with  them  the 
influences  which  had  brought  about  his  undoing.  There 
were  times  now  when  he  felt  that  he  had  realized  the 
dearest  of  his  dreams :  he  had  at  last  installed  himself 
in  the  visionary  castle  of  his  early  days.  The  idea  which, 
in  his  youth,  he  had  caressed  had  now  taken  on  form 
and  substance.  He  was  constantly  in  a  valiant  mood, 
and  his  lively  alternating  need  for  music,  conversation, 
quietude  and  effort  was  supplied  by  his  present  environ 
ment.  His  re-entry  into  the  life  of  intellectual  competi 
tion  stimulated  and  developed  his  every  energy.  He 
could  look  out  into  the  future  as  into  the  face  of  a  glori 
ous  dawn. 

His  work,  however,  did  not  go  on  rapidly.  The  desue 
tude  of  his  powers  had  been  of  too  long  duration  for 
immediate  recovery.  But  this  fact  did  not  make  him  un 
happy.  His  mind  was  clogged  with  years  of  mental  slav 
ery.  In  time,  he  knew,  he  would  throw  them  off.  His 
actual  accomplishments  were  small,  but  the  unfolding 
of  his  dream,  despite  its  tediousness,  was  perfect.  His 
present  work  consisted  largely  of  adversaria.  These  he 
would  arrange  and  amplify  as  his  mind  caught  up  the 
trail  of  analytic  suggestion.  Before  the  winter  had 
passed  he  had  a  complete  skeleton  for  a  new  book — the 
co-ordinated  structure;  and  there  remained  only  the  la 
bour  of  supplying  the  flesh.  He  had  passed  the  middle  of 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  299 

his  thirties,  but  his  voice  had  become  younger  with  a 
nervous  ardour.  His  eyes  were  fiery  and  confident. 
When  he  talked,  his  language  was  exuberant,  his  gestures 
spirited.  His  brain  overflowed  with  discoveries  and  in 
tuitions,  expectant  aspirations  and  organized  energies. 

When  he  considered  his  condition  and  warmed  his 
hopes  round  the  flame  of  his  desires,  the  realization 
forced  its  way  in  upon  him  that  Evelyn  Naesmith  was 
playing  only  a  minor  part  in  the  actual  process  of  his  re 
birth.  During  most  of  the  day  he  was  in  solitude;  and 
after  the  first  month  of  his  work  in  Paris,  there  was  a 
decided  slackening  of  his  inclination  to  seek  her  approval 
and  sympathy.  At  first,  he  had  talked  to  her  much  of  his 
hopes  and  plans.  He  had  discussed  with  her  each  even 
ing  his  progress  during  the  day.  He  had  come  to  her 
with  the  schemes  for  his  books,  and  had  found  a  satis 
faction  in  her  enthusiasm.  But,  as  his  ideas  had  evolved, 
his  instinct  toward  solitude  had  grown,  and,  when  he 
sat  at  dinner  after  the  labours  of  the  day,  it  had  latterly 
been  her  questions  and  expressions  of  interest  that  had 
drawn  from  him  the  information  which  previously  he 
had  given  voluntarily. 

At  the  outset,  his  inspiration  had  seemed  to  come  from 
the  woman  herself,  as  from  an  external  agency;  but  the 
more  sedulously  he  applied  himself  and  the  more  ani 
mated  he  became  with  the  desire  for  attainment,  the  less 
she  seemed  to  have  a  part  in  his  work.  Before  the  spring 
arrived  he  rarely  discussed  his  work  with  her.  Long 
silences  crept  into  their  relationship.  When  they  talked, 
it  was  on  trivial  affairs  or  matters  outside  of  their  im 
mediate  domain.  She  still  questioned  him  occasionally  as 
to  the  progress  he  was  making  and  asked  him  to  show 
her  what  he  had  done.  But  his  answers  were  always 
brief.  There  was  even  a  tendency  on  his  part  to  discour 
age  her  inquiries.  When  he  forced  himself  to  share  his 
thoughts  with  her,  he  did  it  without  his  old  enthusiasm. 
And  when  she  took  issue  with  him  on  certain  points  or 


300  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

showed  a  tendency  toward  suggestion,  he  listened  care 
lessly,  sometimes  with  an  expression  of  slight  annoyance. 
Her  opinions  no  longer  had  weight  with  him,  and,  if  he 
were  physically  tired,  he  would  agree  casually  and  with 
out  sincerity,  in  order  that  the  argument  might  not  be 
prolonged. 

Despite  his  mental  withdrawal,  there  was  no  lessening 
in  his  affection  for  her.  It  merely  put  that  affection  on 
a  different  plane — a  plane  astonishingly  similar  to  that 
on  which  his  previous  affairs  with  women  had  been 
based.  The  intellectual  appeal  in  her,  which  at  first  had 
attracted  him,  became  less  and  less  potent,  until  finally  it 
had  nearly  died  out.  He  was  too  deeply  submerged  in 
his  work  to  question  this  change,  or  to  take  more  than 
cursory  note  of  it.  His  contentment  remained  the  same. 
Within  himself  he  found  all  the  resources  he  needed  to 
inspire  him  to  new  processes  of  thought.  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith  had  been  like  a  medicine.  During  his  sickness  and 
subnormality  she  had,  through  her  influence  and  appeal, 
lifted  him  out  of  his  spiritual  illness  and  infused  him 
with  a  semblance  of  health.  Therefore,  by  attributing  his 
exuberance  to  her  presence,  he  had  come  to  consider  her 
a  necessity  to  his  well-being.  But  when  he  had  gained 
his  normality — when  it  had  become  a  matter  of  internal 
adjustment — he  no  longer  needed  her  curative  services  to 
keep  him  to  his  path  of  ambition.  West  was  not  aware 
of  the  process  which  had  brought  about  his  condition, 
for  the  woman,  in  some  way,  still  meant  much  to  him. 
She  was  the  symbol  of  his  freedom,  and  that  symbol  he 
mistook  for  the  permanent  causative  reality. 


XXX 

SPRING  came  and,  with  it,  a  subtle  unrest.  A  disturb 
ance  crept  into  his  life.  It  was  an  invisible  and  inde 
finable  thing — little  more  than  a  spark  of  consciousness 
that  some  unknown  influence  was  at  work.  In  the  midst 
of  his  writing  he  would  look  out  into  the  garden  with 
a  feeling  of  restlessness;  and  when  he  attempted  to  con 
centrate  his  mind  on  a  particularly  difficult  point  of 
reasoning,  it  was  as  if,  against  his  will,  he  was  being 
drawn  away  from  his  work.  At  other  times  he  experi 
enced  a  sensation  similar  to  that  which  the  hidden  pres 
ence  of  someone  else  in  the  room  might  have  produced. 
It  was  a  mild  and  almost  unnoticeable  sensation — so  mild, 
in  fact,  that  West  did  not  consider  it  worthy  of  specu 
lation.  Only  when  night  came  and  he  discovered  that  he 
had  not  accomplished  what  he  had  planned  for  the  day, 
did  he  grow  uneasy  regarding  it. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  trace  it  to  the  effects  of 
the  slight  alteration  in  Evelyn  Naesmith's  attitude — an 
alteration  of  which  West  had  become  aware  toward  the 
end  of  his  first  six  months  with  her  in  Paris.  Following 
his  disinclination  to  discuss  intimately  with  her  his 
dreams  of  future  achievement,  she  had  more  than  once 
become  suddenly  silent,  and  had  turned  to  other  topics  of 
conversation.  Unconsciously  relieved  by  her  ready  dis 
missal  of  his  personal  affairs,  he  had  failed  to  notice  that 
there  had  been  deliberation  in  her  choice  of  other  sub 
jects.  Sometimes  for  days  an  attitude  of  indifference 
had  seized  her,  and  more  than  once  she  had  lapsed  into  a 
sullen  mood.  During  these  depressions  West  had  suf 
fered  an  impersonal  annoyance,  in  the  same  way  that  he 

301 


302  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

might  have  suffered  at  the  inconvenient  mistake  of  a 
tradesman  or  at  a  sudden  shower  just  when  he  had 
planned  to  go  out.  His  mind  was  too  full  of  other  and 
more  important  matters  for  him  to  give  time  either  to  in 
trospection  or  self-analysis.  He  dismissed  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith's  periods  of  moroseness  as  inconsequent  manifes 
tations  of  some  temporary  discomfiture,  and  paid  little 
or  no  conscious  heed  to  them. 

"I  can't  understand  my  disinclination  to  work  of  late," 
he  said  to  her  one  night.  "And  the  spring  has  always 
been  my  most  prolific  season.  I  feel  uneasy,  and  in  the 
later  afternoons  I  become  actually  nervous." 

"You  are  working  too  hard,"  the  woman  answered. 
"You  need  to  go  out  more — to  take  more  rest.  You  are 
too  absorbed — you  get  no  recreation." 

"It  isn't  that,"  West  remained  a  while  in  silent 
thought.  "No,  that  isn't  it.  I  have  always  been  a  hard 
worker.  I'm  happiest  when  I'm  working.  I  don't  do 
half  the  writing  now  I  used  to  do.  I  haven't  grown  tired 
a  single  day  since  I've  been  in  Paris." 

The  woman  watched  him  a  moment  narrowly. 

"I  believe,  Stanford,"  she  announced  in  a  hard,  ac 
cusing  voice,  "that  you  are  growing  tired  of  me.  I  am 
not  able  to  stimulate  you  any  longer.  You  may  not 
know  it,  but  during  the  last  few  months  you  have  drawn 
away  from  me.  You  used  to  come  to  me  and  talk  about 
your  work.  Now  you  seem  to  resent  it  if  I  even  mention 
the  subject  to  you." 

"That  is  hardly  fair,"  West  answered,  uneasily.  "I 
have  been  very  busy." 

"Yes!  So  busy  that  I  have  been  neglected,"  the 
woman  flashed  back.  "Maybe  you  don't  realize  that 
your  whole  attitude  toward  me  has  undergone  a  change. 
You  could  get  along  as  well  without  me.  I'm  not  of  any 
service  to  you  any  more."  She  spoke  resentfully,  and 
looked  at  him  with  an  injured  air. 

The  unrest  from  which  West  had  been  suffering  dur- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  303 

ing  the  past  few  weeks  seized  him  again  as  he  listened  to 
her  words.  But  now  it  was  intensified,  and  arose  from  a 
specific  cause.  The  woman  herself  had  aroused  it;  and 
he  began  to  understand  the  uneasiness  which  had  inter 
fered  with  his  work.  Heretofore  he  had  been  too  en 
grossed  to  concern  himself  with  the  nuances  and  petty  re 
actions  of  their  temperamental  relationship.  The  wom 
an's  words  constituted  the  first  definite  statement  on 
either  his  or  her  part,  of  the  exact  status  of  their  mutual 
attitude;  but  he  at  once  recognized  the  truth  of  her  re 
marks  :  he  no  longer  needed  her  in  order  to  proceed  in 
his  literary  labours;  unconsciously  he  had  withdrawn 
from  her  influence  which,  as  he  thought,  had  been  the  ba 
sis  of  their  love ;  he  had  neglected  her  in  so  far  as  he 
had  not  shared  himself  with  her  wholly. 

Evelyn  Naesmith,  however,  had  sensed  the  first  slight 
alteration  in  their  former  relations.  She  had  watched 
his  intellectual  solitude  develop  step  by  step  until  her 
relegation  had  been  almost  complete.  She  had  not  ac 
cused  him  openly  at  first,  because  she  thought  she  could 
win  him  back.  When  all  her  efforts  had  failed,  she  at 
tempted  to  swathe  her  wounded  pride  with  indifference, 
and  thus  protect  herself  from  the  effects  of  his  self- 
sufficiency.  But  her  indifference  was  not  genuine,  and  on 
several  occasions  it  ran  over  into  sullenness.  This  sul- 
lenness  she  did  not  attempt  to  overcome  or  disguise,  for 
she  thought  West  would  take  note  of  it  and  repent.  She 
held  the  belief  that,  by  making  the  atmosphere  in  which 
he  lived  disagreeable,  she  could  at  least  attract  attention 
to  herself.  Her  calculations  were  not  conscious.  They 
were  the  result  of  a  desperate  impulse  to  turn  his  mind 
again  to  a  consideration  of  her  importance. 

The  effect  of  her  instinctive  machinations,  however, 
was  not  what  she  had  intuitively  hoped.  West  had  suf 
fered  a  depression  as  the  result  of  her  actions,  but  he  had 
not  connected  the  two.  Still  dominated  by  the  idea  of 
the  woman's  sympathetic  intelligence,  he  had  sought  ex- 


304  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

planations  in  channels  far  removed  from  the  true  cause. 
Not  until  she  herself  brought  him  face  to  face  with  the 
fact  that  he  had  left  her  outside  the  gates  of  his  intel 
lectual  life,  did  he  begin  to  see  the  matter  in  its  true  light. 
As  he  sat  looking  at  her  across  the  table,  he  felt  the  im 
position  of  a  new  demand — a  demand  which  he  had  no 
inclination  to  obey,  for,  since  he  had  no  need  of  her  help, 
he  could  not,  with  spontaneity  and  sincerity,  go  to  her  for 
it.  Yet  he  knew  that  this  was  what  she  wanted,  and  that, 
if  he  did  not  acquiesce  in  the  demand,  unpleasantness 
would  result. 

He  was  confronted  by  an  apparently  unsolvable  di 
lemma.  Had  he  not  cared  deeply  for  the  woman,  the  sit 
uation  would  have  given  him  little  worry.  But  so  subtly 
had  her  influence  permeated  his  life  that  he  felt  the  im 
perative  need  of  her  in  numerous  ways  which  were  in 
nowise  connected  with  the  actual  process  of  his  life  work. 
She  dispelled  his  loneliness  during  his  hours  of  rest,  and, 
even  when  he  was  busily  engaged,  the  consciousness  of 
her  presence  afforded  him  a  certain  contentment  and 
comfort.  He  found  in  her  the  necessary  relief  from  la 
bour.  She  constituted  a  desirable  orderliness  in  his  rou 
tine.  She  relieved  his  mind  of  innumerable  minor  an 
noyances  which,  had  he  been  alone,  would  have  fallen  on 
his  shoulders.  She  compensated  him  for  the  absence  of 
his  wife  and,  in  a  measure,  furnished  him  with  a  justi 
fication  for  having  deserted  his  legal  obligations.  His 
nature  was  such  that  he  required  a  sexual  and  social  com 
plement  ;  and  no  other  woman  had  ever  gratified  his  ma 
terial  and  chemical  needs  with  such  intelligent  under 
standing.  Throughout  the  whole  of  his  maturity  he  had 
demanded  the  presence  of  a  woman  in  the  house,  in  order 
that  the  many  functionings  of  his  masculinity  might 
be  expressed.  Furthermore,  his  physical  and  sentimental 
instincts  were  closely  allied,  and  long  propinquity  had 
enhanced  his  affections  to  so  high  a  degree  that  any 
breaking  off  of  a  relationship  of  this  kind  would  have 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  305 

meant  untold  emotional  suffering.  Thus  had  Evelyn 
Naesmith  become  the  outlet  of  something  deeply  in 
grained  in  his  nature — something  vital  and  significant 
and  biologically  operative. 

"I  need  you  now  more  than  I  ever  needed  you,"  West 
told  her.  "You  are  wrong  when  you  say  I  could  get 
along  just  as  well  without  you.  .  .  .  Don't  you  under 
stand  that  I  have  no  one  else  in  the  world?" 

"You  have  your  work/'  the  woman  observed.  In  her 
voice  there  was  resentment,  even  jealousy.  "That,  to 
you,  is  of  more  importance  than  I  am.  ...  I  have  only 
you." 

West  regarded  her  with  mild  amazement.  He  could 
not  put  down  a  sensation  of  anger  which  her  words  had 
aroused.  He  had  always  supposed  that  she  was  vitally 
interested  in  his  writing,  but  he  could  see  now  that  she, 
like  Irene  Brenner,  took  umbrage  at  the  fact  that  it  in 
truded  upon  their  personal  relationship.  Her  sudden 
change  of  attitude  astonished  him.  The  cause  of  it  was 
not  clear. 

"Didn't  you  yourself  encourage  me  in  my  work?"  he 
asked  her. 

"It  belonged  to  both  of  us  then,"  she  answered.  "You 
shared  it  with  me  and  made  me  feel  that  it  was  mine  as 
well.  Now  it  has  become  something  apart  from  our  love 
— something  outside  of  our  lives.  It  held  us  together 
once;  now  it  has  separated  us." 

West  understood.  It  was  through  his  creative  instinct 
that  she  had  gained  him.  His  work  represented  a  plane 
on  which  both  of  them  could  stand.  Unconsciously  she 
had  used  it  as  a  weapon  to  attain  her  end.  Her  interest 
in  it  had  not  been  intellectual,  but  personal.  It  had  been 
a  means  of  conquest,  and  it  had  served  its  purpose.  Once 
her  point  had  been  won,  it  no  longer  meant  anything  to 
her.  He  determined  to  test  her. 

"After  all,"  he  said  hopelessly,  "my  work  matters  lit 
tle.  It  is  all  so  futile — such  a  thankless  task. 


306  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

Would  you  be  happier  if  I  gave  up  my  work  and  tried  to 
secure  from  life  the  immediate  happiness  which  is  every 
man's  due  ?  Wouldn't  we  both  be  happier  ?  .  .  .  During 
the  last  few  months  I  have  been  asking  myself  that  ques 
tion." 

He  hoped  she  would  protest.  He  even  hoped  that  she 
would  see  the  sham  of  his  words  and  pretend  to  protest. 

She  did  not  answer  for  some  time,  and  West  watched 
her  anxiously.  At  length  her  manner  softened,  and  she 
placed  her  hand  on  his  across  the  table. 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide/'  she  said,  with  tender  ap 
peal.  "I  know  how  much  your  work  means  to  you.  If 
you  gave  it  up,  wouldn't  you  regret  it?  ...  Do  you 
really  think  I  could  be  all  in  all  to  you?" 

The  man  regarded  her  critically.  The  mask  had  fallen 
from  her.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  could  read 
unmistakably  the  underlying  motives  of  her  past  actions. 
She,  too,  had  become  an  enemy  to  his  intellectual  aspira 
tions,  and  the  shock  of  this  revelation  stunned  and  em 
bittered  him.  His  mind  flashed  back  to  his  wife,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  an  almost  overwhelming  pity  for  her — a 
pity  and  a  remorse  for  the  wrong  he  had  done  her.  But 
at  the  same  time  he  could  not  shake  off  the  attraction 
of  Evelyn  Naesmith.  His  imagination  had  been  inflamed 
by  her  until  his  system  needed  the  stimulation  which  she 
alone  could  supply.  She  had  become  a  habit,  affecting 
him  like  a  drug.  No  matter  what  his  disgust  for  her,  he 
craved  her,  and  would  have  suffered  agonies  without  her. 

His  impulse  was  to  tell  her  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
giving  up  his  work,  that  his  remarks  had  been  only  a 
test  of  her  loyalty;  but  such  a  confession,  he  knew,  would 
have  infuriated  her,  and  might  have  jeopardized  their  re 
lationship. 

"I  am  not  certain,"  he  answered  instead.  "Perhaps, 
for  the  time  being,  at  any  rate,  I  had  better  continue.  At 
least,  I  want  to  finish  the  books  I  have  begun.  Then  I 
will  be  able  to  tell  just  where  our  greatest  happiness  lies." 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  307 

He  discerned  a  slight  cloud  of  disappointment  on  her 
face  when  he  told  her  this ;  but  she  accepted  his  decision 
in  silence.  Going  round  the  table,  she  sat  down  beside 
him  and  put  her  arms  about  him.  Her  action  awakened 
in  him  a  brutal  viciousness.  He  felt  like  throwing  her 
away  from  him.  But,  despite  this  fact,  he  was  hungry 
for  her.  He  could  not  resist  her  fascination.  He  felt 
repelled  and  attracted  by  her  at  the  same  time.  He 
wanted  to  kiss  her  passionately ;  and  also  his  hands  ached 
to  inflict  pain  on  her. 

After  that  night,  his  unrest  was  a  conscious  thing. 
His  knowledge  of  the  woman's  attitude  became  a  definite 
hindering  force  to  the  free  exercise  of  his  mind.  He 
knew  that  inwardly  she  was  working  against  him,  and 
the  fact  that  he  wanted  and  needed  her  inclined  him  to 
heed  the  insistence  of  her  silent  antagonism.  She  saw 
the  effect  of  her  attitude  on  him,  and  unanalytically,  al 
most  unconsciously,  she  indulged  in  actions  subtly  an 
noying.  In  the  mornings,  when  he  left  her  to  retire  to 
his  studio,  she  received  his  kiss  impassively,  trying  to 
rouse  his  sympathy  by  appearing  forlorn  or  unhappy. 
When  his  work  was  over  for  the  day,  she  greeted  him 
with  effusive  caresses,  in  order  to  impress  upon  him  her 
loneliness  when  he  was  away  from  her.  She  was  playing 
the  game  of  sympathetic  humbleness  and  dependence. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  come  to  the  studio  during  the  day, 
softly  and  tentatively,  and  looked  in  upon  him.  When 
he  spoke  to  her,  or  asked  what  she  desired,  she  had 
crossed  to  him  contritely. 

"I  don't  want  to  disturb  you,  dear,"  she  had  said,  "but 
I'm  terribly  lonesome.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  be 
resting  and  would  talk  to  me  for  a  minute.  ...  I  didn't 
think  you'd  hear  me.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  won't  you,  dear?'* 

For  two  weeks  West  fought  against  the  insidious  cor 
ruption  of  his  sentiments,  against  the  atmosphere  of  de 
pression  which  the  woman  cast  about  him.  It  made  his 
work  difficult,  but  he  did  not  complain.  In  fact,  there 


3o8  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

was  nothing  against  which  he  could  protest  without  criti 
cizing  her  affection,  for  she  was  over-sweet,  and  her 
moodiness  appeared  to  be  a  direct  result  of  the  constancy 
of  her  love.  One  day  when  he  reprimanded  her  pleas 
antly  for  disturbing  him,  she  pretended  to  be  deeply 
hurt. 

"It  was  only  because  you  mean  so  much  to  me  that  I 
came  to  you,"  she  said,  with  grieved  humility.  "You 
don't  know  how  I  long  for  you  when  you  are  away.  .  .  . 
You  see,  you  are  growing  tired  of  me.  You  don't  want 
my  love — it  only  annoys  you.  .  .  .  What  a  fool  I  was  to 
think  you  needed  me!" 

She  left  the  room  sulkily. 

For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  West  was  unable  to 
concentrate  his  mind.  His  work  seemed  overcast  with 
the  gloom  of  her  memory.  That  night  at  dinner  she  was 
cold  to  him,  almost  formal;  and  her  attitude  made  him 
uncomfortable  and  nervous.  Once  he  attempted  to  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  on  the  lips,  in  the  hope  of 
breaking  down  her  aloofness.  But  she  merely  turned  her 
cheek,  and  in  a  moment  drew  away  from  him  without 
altering  her  reserve.  He  knew  he  was  being  chastened 
for  his  reprimand  earlier  in  the  day,  and  said  nothing. 
He  attempted  to  dismiss  the  matter  indifferently,  and 
began  reading;  but  the  woman  sat  down  within  his 
range  of  vision  and  looked  out  into  the  street  abstractedly. 
There  was  no  avoiding  the  influence  of  her  mood,  and 
West  at  length  retired,  baffled  and  uneasy. 

He  did  not  reproach  her  with  her  demonstrativeness 
after  that  night.  He  accepted  her  intrusions  and  facile 
kisses  with  equanimity,  applying  himself  diligently  to 
his  labours.  He  was  resolved  to  bear  the  weight  of  her 
detrimental  influence  without  letting  her  become  aware 
of  the  fact  that  she  was  affecting  him.  He  could  see 
no  other  course  to  pursue,  and  argued  with  himself  that, 
after  all,  there  were  many  compensations  in  her  attentive 
adoration. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  309 

But  she  herself  changed  suddenly.  Believing  that  he 
no  longer  responded  to  her  soft  persuasiveness,  she  took 
a  further  step  and  began  to  complain  openly  of  his 
neglect.  She  would  ask  him  to  spend  the  day  with  her 
at  Sevres  or  Saint-Cloud,  and  then  use  his  refusal  as  an 
excuse  for  an  unpleasant  scene  in  which  she  harried  him 
with  tears  and  accusations.  On  several  occasions,  when 
he  went  to  the  offices  of  the  Revue,  or  attended  con 
certs  in  the  company  of  the  men  he  had  met  through 
the  Revue's  editor,  she  told  him  irritably  that,  even  during 
those  first  few  hours  in  the  evening  which  they  might 
have  alone,  he  chose  to  be  with  others.  Once  she  had 
refused  to  go  with  him  to  an  art  exhibition  because  some 
friends  were  to  accompany  them.  Her  stinging  remarks 
affected  him  so  deeply  that  he  was  unable  to  enjoy  him 
self.  When,  on  his  return,  he  apprised  her  of  this  fact, 
there  was  an  expression  of  triumphant  satisfaction  in  her 
eyes.  West  noticed  it  and  said  nothing.  Her  hold  on 
him  was  so  strong  that  his  instinct  was  always  toward 
pacific  compromise.  He  was  unaware,  however,  of  the 
methods  she  was  using  to  focus  his  attention  on  her 
alone.  First,  she  had  tried,  by  both  sympathy  and  open 
revolt,  to  alienate  him  from  his  work.  Then  she  had 
sought,  through  her  tears  and  entreaties,  to  render  him 
unfit  for  sustained  thinking.  At  last,  not  attaining  the 
success  she  desired,  she  had  begun  to  tear  away  the  other 
interests  of  his  life — his  fellowship  with  men,  his  hours 
of  recreation,  his  excursions  into  the  field  of  music  and 
painting. 

West  weighed  the  situation  carefully,  but  was  unable  to 
reach  a  conclusion.  Any  effort  to  appeal  to  her  would 
merely  have  involved  him  more  deeply,  for  his  physical 
instincts  were  so  intertwined  with  her  nature  that  she 
was  able  to  inflict  on  him  a  psychological  punishment 
which  would  be  worse  than  his  present  suffering.  For 
his  outside  interests  he  did  not  particularly  care.  Those 
he  would  gladly  have  forgone  if  it  would  have  assured 


310  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

him  a  peaceful  and  congenial  atmosphere  in  which  to 
work.  But  to  him  the  hopeless  thing  about  the  situation 
was  that,  when  he  devoted  himself  eagerly  to  his  re 
searches,  she  seemed  to  think  he  was  grudging  in  his  af 
fection  for  her.  To  go  to  her  with  all  of  his  ideas  and 
writings  would  be  to  indulge  in  an  elaborate  and 
almost  fantastic  hypocrisy.  He  was  too  cognizant 
of  the  inadequacy  of  her  intellectuality  to  cope  with 
his  ideals.  In  the  beginning  he  had  accepted  her 
on  the  basis  of  masculine  equality,  overlooking  the 
fundamental  differences  of  the  two  sexes.  He  had 
now  come  to  the  conclusion  that  her  penetration  into 
his  needs  was  intuitive  rather  than  consciously  analytic. 
Only  after  they  had  arrived  in  Paris  had  they  indulged 
in  any  specific  exchange  of  tastes.  Then  it  was  that  he 
learned  he  had  taken  too  much  for  granted.  He  discov 
ered  that  she  found  aesthetic  satisfaction  in  such  artists 
as  Massenet,  Chopin,  Tschaikowsky,  Swinburne,  Mae 
terlinck,  D'Annunzio,  Corot,  Raphael  and  Botticelli.  He 
noticed  that  she  did  not  react  enthusiastically  to  those 
men  who  formed  the  foundation  of  his  cultural  creed — - 
Beethoven,  Brahms,  Mozart,  Balzac,  Goethe,  Michel 
angelo,  Veronese  and  Rubens.  Between  them  was  a 
lacuna  which  only  deceit  could  have  bridged.  At  first  he 
had  lived  in  a  rare  atmosphere  of  exquisite  emotions,  but, 
as  the  months  went  by,  it  became  evident  to  him  that  his 
happiness  was  not  altogether  unrelated  to  that  of  a  fool's 
paradise. 

Nearly  a  year  of  his  life  with  Evelyn  Naesmith  had 
passed,  and,  save  during  its  first  few  months,  he  had 
accomplished  little.  He  conceded  point  after  point  to  her 
in  the  hope  of  reaching  some  emotional  adjustment 
whereby  his  work  might  continue  unhindered.  But  her 
consuming  jealousy  for  everything  in  his  life  which  did 
not  touch  her  directly  gave  rise  to  a  constant  series  of  dis 
agreeable  episodes.  There  were  heated  exchanges  of 
words,  in  which  she  sometimes  accused  him  of  failing  to 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  311 

respect  her  because  of  what  she  had  done  for  him.  At 
other  times  she  openly  accounted  for  his  attitude  by  in 
sisting  that  he  was  still  in  love  with  his  wife. 

These  scenes  recurred  often.  They  produced  in  West 
a  corrosive  irritation  which  undermined  him  both  physi 
cally  and  mentally.  They  annihilated  his  power  to  think, 
oppressed  his  heart,  withered  all  impulses  of  action  and 
energy.  Even  after  they  had  passed,  and  the  woman 
had  wept  and  begged  forgiveness,  their  influence  per 
sisted.  When  West  would  try  to  concentrate  his  mind 
again,  to  smooth  out  the  twisted  and  corrugated  surface 
of  his  thoughts,  his  ideas  became  intractable,  and  seemed 
to  leap  up  and  down,  dodge,  swirl,  and  spin  round,  like 
corks  in  a  choppy  sea.  It  would  be  days  sometimes  be 
fore  his  inward  tranquillity  would  return  to  him,  and 
these  days  were  profitless,  empty,  lost.  With  awful 
yearnings  he  watched  these  sterile  periods  disappear  into 
the  bottomless  abyss  of  his  youth,  where  already  lay  bur 
ied  the  corpses  of  many  of  his  finest  years;  and  a  caustic 
anger  toward  Evelyn  Naesmith  would  fill  him — an  an 
ger  such  as  he  might  feel  toward  a  thief  who  had  robbed 
him  of  his  most  cherished  possession. 


XXXI 

DURING  the  autumn  of  West's  second  year  in  Paris 
the  greatest  joy  of  his  life  came  as  a  compensation  for 
his  many  defeats  and  dissatisfactions : — his  meeting  and 
friendship  with  Paul  Allard.  At  that  time  all  France  was 
talking  of  Allard.  He  was  a  young  composer  who  had 
broken  from  tradition,  and  was  trying  to  seek  a  new 
musical  expression  which  would  set  forth  the  older  ideas 
with  greater  emotional  intensity.  His  unusual  scales  and 
chords,  formed  entirely  upon  harmonics,  had  at  first  been 
laughed  at;  and  the  manner  in  which  he  had  put  to 
gether  notes  which,  according  to  the  old  musical  formulas, 
should  have  been  accomplished  with  elaborate  transitions, 
had  been  denounced  by  the  established  critics.  But  so 
undeniably  lovely  had  been  the  effect  of  these  heresies 
that  Allard's  former  detractors  were  now  admitting  the 
beauty  of  his  new  system.  When  his  second  opera  had 
been  produced,  the  new  men  rallied  to  his  standard ;  and 
even  in  Germany  he  was  given  a  serious  hearing. 

West  had  followed  his  work,  and  had  admired  the 
splendour  of  his  compositions,  as  well  as  the  freedom 
of  intellectual  energy  which  lay  behind  them.  He  saw 
in  Allard  a  man  who  was  striving,  through  the  medium 
of  sound,  to  express  the  same  selective  freedom  of 
aesthetic  beauty  that  he  himself  had  once  pleaded  for  in 
his  writings.  For  nearly  a  year  he  had  admired  from  a 
distance  this  revolutionary  composer.  He  had  discussed 
his  works  with  other  men,  and  had  written  of  them  in  the 
books  now  under  way.  The  miraculous  art  of  Allard 
made  a  deep  impression  on  West ;  and  when  the  day  came 
in  which  he  was  to  meet  the  composer,  he  was  in  a  state 
of  rare  and  impatient  anticipation. 

312 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  313 

It  was  the  old  editor  of  the  Revue  who  had  arranged 
the  meeting.  He  wrote  to  West :  "Often  I  have  heard 
you  speak  of  Paul  Allard.  Therefore,  I  take  it  for 
granted  that  you  would  like  to  see  him.  To-morrow  night 
he  and  I  shall  be  at  the  Closerie  des  Lilas,  very  near  your 
home.  Join  us  at  nine,  if  you  can.  I  have  given  Allard 
one  of  your  early  books,  and  he  is  desirous  of  meeting 
you."  West  wrote  and  thanked  him,  promising  to  be 
at  the  cafe  at  the  appointed  hour. 

The  next  day  he  was  in  a  gay  mood.  Never  before 
had  he  realized  how  solitary  he  had  been,  how  greatly 
in  need  of  purely  intellectual  companionship.  Alone,  he 
had  worked  and  thought  amid  men  engaged  in  petty 
pursuits.  Even  SeminofFs  appreciation  had  been  entirely 
critical.  But  Allard  was  a  creator  as  well  as  a  thinker, 
and  the  thought  of  the  approaching  meeting  banished  that 
temperamental  loneliness  which  had  always  hung  over 
him,  and  which  he  had  come  to  accept  as  the  inevitable 
price  he  must  pay  for  the  joy  of  exalted  labour. 

West  was  not  disappointed  in  the  artist  he  had  so 
long  admired.  Allard  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  rugged, 
attractive  face,  heavily  bearded.  His  forehead  was 
massive.  His  eyes  were  restless  and  fiery,  as  if  they 
were  constantly  registering  the  nervous  activities  of  his 
brain.  West  expressed  briefly  his  veneration  of  the 
other's  works,  and  Allard,  in  turn,  commented  seriously 
on  the  book  which  the  Revue  editor  had  given  him  to 
read.  After  a  moment's  hesitancy,  the  conversation  be 
came  swift  and  animated.  It  ran  from  music  to  painting, 
then  to  literature,  always  touching  on  the  principles  of 
the  arts  and  their  generating  functions.  The  hours  passed 
rapidly,  and  it  was  not  till  long  past  midnight  that  Allard 
arose. 

"You  must  come  to  see  me,  Mr.  West,"  he  said,  heart 
ily.  "Your  ideas  and  perceptions  astonish  me.  And 
I  should  enjoy  seeing  other  of  your  books." 

He  wrote  down  his  address  and  gave  it  to  West. 


3H  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"Can  you  come  Friday  evening?  ...  I  promise  you 
we  shall  be  alone." 

West  spent  three  days  of  hard  work.  A  new  incentive 
had  entered  into  his  efforts.  He  had  come  in  contact 
with  a  man  who  appreciated  him  with  deep  and  practical 
knowledge.  The  experience  had  shaken  him  out  of  his 
old  hesitancy  between  the  idea  of  futility  and  the  impulse 
toward  achievement.  No  longer  was  he  alone  in  his 
battle.  Allard  had  given  him  confidence  and  a  greater 
sense  of  security.  As  he  looked  back  upon  the  annoyances 
of  Evelyn  Naesmith,  they  appeared  trivial.  He  wondered 
how  he  could  have  let  them  affect  him  so  greatly.  An 
elation,  such  as  he  had  never  before  experienced,  ani 
mated  his  ambitions. 

Friday  at  dinner  he  had  an  unpleasant  scene  with 
Evelyn  Naesmith. 

"I  thought  that  to-night,  at  least,  we  would  be  to 
gether,"  she  said  in  a  faultfinding  voice.  "Last  night 
there  were  people  here.  To-morrow,  we  are  invited  to 
the  opera.  Sunday  evening  we  are  going  out  to  dinner; 
and  Monday  you  will  want  to  attend  the  chamber  music. 
Tuesday,  no  doubt,  you  will  find  some  other  excuse  for 
not  being  alone  with  me.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  am  right  when 
I  say  you  are  getting  tired  of  my  company." 

When  West  did  not  reply,  she  ran  on,  scoldingly.  But 
her  words  had  little  effect  on  him :  he  was  too  enraptured 
with  the  prospect  of  seeing  Allard  and  of  interchanging 
and  discussing  their  ideas  and  beliefs.  Even  when  Evelyn 
Naesmith,  frowning  gloomily,  refused  to  let  him  kiss  her 
as  he  went  out,  he  was  not  troubled  by  her  mood  as  he 
had  been  on  previous  occasions. 

Allard  lived  far  down  on  the  Boulevard  Saint  Ger 
main.  As  West  drove  slowly  between  the  great  rows  of 
overhanging  trees,  he  experienced  a  sensation  of  comfort 
and  completion  which  had  never  been  his  during  the  years 
of  his  maturity.  The  night  was  warm  with  the  first 
breath  of  summer.  The  street  was  alive  with  pedestrians, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  315 

little  groups  of  laughing  and  chatting  people.  Girls  in 
brilliant  attire  passed  him,  having  about  them  the  in 
tractable  romance  of  a  dream.  The  cafes  were  filled,  and 
now  and  then  the  strains  of  happy  music  came  to  him  as 
he  drove  by.  All  those  acts  in  his  life  which  had  here 
tofore  troubled  him  now  seemed  justified.  He  caught 
sight  of  a  woman  whose  figure  recalled  his  wife,  but 
there  was  no  sorrow  or  regret  in  the  memory  of  the  wo 
man  he  had  deserted.  When  finally  the  -fiacre  drew 
up  in  front  of  a  house  at  the  mouth  of  a  little  impasse, 
he  felt  that  he  was  about  to  attain  to  that  stimulating  and 
perfect  joy  toward  which  all  the  divagating  paths  of  his 
past  had  inevitably  led. 

West  paused  before  the  great  oaken  door.  Inside  he 
could  hear  the  sound  of  a  piano.  He  listened  attentively 
for  a  moment  until  the  music  ceased.  Then  he  rang. 
There  were  footsteps  within,  and  a  woman  opened  the 
door  and  admitted  him,  smilingly.  At  the  end  of  the 
wide  hall  behind  her  appeared  Allard. 

"Enter,  my  friend/'  he  said,  with  pleasant  sonorous 
ness. 

He  came  forward  and  put  his  arm  about  the  woman,  a 
small  dark-haired,  dark-eyed  creature.  West  was  intro 
duced  to  her.  She  was  Amelie  Soe'n,  Allard's  mistress. 
After  he  and  the  composer  were  seated  in  the  study,  she 
brought  them  wine  and  cigarettes,  excusing  herself  at 
once. 

"I  have  thought  of  you  many  times,"  Allard  said 
when  they  were  alone.  "I  feel  in  you  a  curious  under 
standing — an  almost  psychic  participation  in  my  work. 
You,  I  believe,  are  striving  for  the  same  goal  that  I  am, 
only  through  a  different  medium — which  makes  us  broth 
ers,  after  a  fashion.  It  is  through  such  spirit  as  you  and 
I  possess  that  modern  art  must  be  renovated.  .  .  .  Per 
haps  it  is  not  so  difficult  as  we  imagine.  Already  I  am 
being  acclaimed.  I  have  passed  that  border-line  which 
divides  public  obloquy  from  public  esteem.  Of  course,  it 


316  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

is  not  intelligent  esteem,  but  the  fact  at  least  indicates 
that  subconsciously  the  world  is  experiencing  a  new 
beauty.  That  is  the  way  the  people  receive  all  their  gifts 
— unknowingly,  like  a  sensitive  negative.  The  impress 
is  made  upon  them  without  their  knowing  it.  In  this  day 
of  epicene  art,  vitality  like  ours  is  all  the  more  con 
spicuous.  There  are  too  many  signs  of  asexuality,  and 
therefore  of  decadence,  in  our  modern  art  for  us  to  be 
able  to  leave  our  mark  upon  life.  Your  work,  like  mine, 
is  sustained  by  a  passion  which  is  on  the  move  all  the 
time,  giving  to  our  tasks  an  animating  synthesis." 

West  listened,  enraptured.  When  the  other  had  fin 
ished,  he  himself  began  to  talk.  Their  spirited  conver 
sation  came  easily,  and  each  remark  seemed  to  draw 
them  closer  together  in  the  common  bond  of  intellectual 
aristocracy.  West  had  brought  with  him  some  of  the 
material  he  had  prepared  during  his  first  year  in  Paris, 
and  read  passages  to  Allard.  Later  Allard  played  pas 
sages  from  a  new  sonata  he  had  recently  been  work 
ing  on.  The  two  men  criticized  each  other  with  warmth, 
each  feeling  that  he  had  at  last  found  the  one  perfect 
listener,  the  man  who  was  both  disciple  and  master. 

When  the  time  came  for  West  to  depart,  Allard  in 
sisted  on  walking  with  his  guest  along  the  river.  They 
were  frankly  pleased  at  their  mutual  discovery,  West 
perhaps  more  than  Allard,  for  he  had  only  just  begun 
to  find  that  path  along  which  the  composer  had  already 
blazed  a  trail.  He  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  his  enthusi 
astic  admiration;  and,  before  they  parted,  they  had  ar 
ranged  to  see  each  other  often. 

After  that,  their  friendship  developed  rapidly.  Scarcely 
a  week  .went  by  that  they  did  not  come  together  at  least 
two  or  three  times,  sometimes  at  Allard's  house,  some 
times  at  West's.  There  were  excursions  into  the  country, 
rides  through  the  Bois,  journeys  down  the  river.  An 
intimacy  also  grew  up  between  Evelyn  Naesmith  and 
Amelie  Soe'n.  The  two  would  meet  during  the  day  when 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  317 

West  and  Allard  were  busy  with  their  work.  Amelie 
Soe'n  was  a  woman  of  no  meagre  attainments.  She  was 
a  capable  musician,  studying  continually,  and  attending 
concerts  whenever  an  opportunity  offered.  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith  did  not  regard  her  in  the  same  light  in  which  she 
looked  upon  woman  in  general,  but  was  glad  of  the  other's 
company  during  the  long  hours  in  which  West  shut  him 
self  up  in  his  study.  Now  he  was  working  more  swiftly 
and  feverishly  than  ever,  and  in  the  evenings  he  was  gen 
erally  fatigued. 

The  months  passed  rapidly,  and  West  was  supremely 
happy.  Autumn  came,  and  he  saw  his  book  near  com 
pletion.  In  the  main  it  was  the  first  of  the  series  he  had 
planned  years  before  with  Seminoff.  He  plunged  into 
the  labour  of  it  with  anxious  energy.  Allard  and  he  had 
become  the  warmest  of  friends,  and  freely  discussed  their 
work  with  each  other.  The  small  world  in  which  they 
lived  had  already  remarked  their  intimacy.  When  one 
of  them  was  seen  at  a  cafe,  the  other  was  always  expected 
to  join  him.  They  took  their  recreations  together,  for 
they  had  found  in  each  other  an  understanding  devoid 
of  friction.  Though  it  resulted  in  stimulation,  it  was 
temporarily  soothing. 

Before  West's  second  winter  in  Paris  had  passed,  Eve 
lyn  Naesmith  began  to  show  signs  of  resentment  toward 
Allard's  intrusion  into  the  menage  which  she  and 
West  had  established.  She  had  always  had  an  instinctive 
dislike  for  the  composer.  She  saw  in  him  a  danger  which 
threatened  her  present  relationship.  It  had  been  her 
hope  to  supply  West's  every  need,  and  whenever  he  dis 
cussed  his  work  with  this  man  who  had  come  into  their 
lives,  she  regarded  it  as  a  usurpation  of  her  prerogatives. 
She  was  too  shrewd  to  object  specifically  at  first.  Her 
opinion,  she  knew,  would  not  offset  West's  genuine  affec 
tion  for  his  friend;  and  she  felt  defeated  by  the  very 
nature  of  the  situation.  Her  jealousy  of  Allard,  however, 
was  so  keen  that  once  or  twice  she  had  openly  shown  her 


318  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

displeasure  at  his  intervention.  In  time  her  emotions 
became  ungovernable.  She  forced  many  situations  so 
that  West,  in  planning  his  actions,  was  necessitated  to 
make  an  apparent  choice  between  her  and  Allard.  If  he 
decided  in  the  man's  favour,  it  resulted  in  an  explosion 
of  insulting  invectives  in  which  she  declared  that  she  was 
only  a  secondary  consideration  in  his  life,  a  mere  con 
venience  to  be  used  or  set  aside  in  accordance  with 
Allard's  greater  claim  on  him.  Once  she  became  hys 
terical  and  threatened  to  leave  him,  saying  that  he  no 
longer  respected  her,  that  he  had  forced  upon  her  a  sense 
of  immorality,  that  his  constant  preference  for  Allard's 
company  was  degrading  her  in  her  own  eyes.  So  bitterly 
did  she  protest,  that  thereafter  West  felt  guilty  whenever 
he  spent  an  hour  with  his  friend.  For  a  while  he  devoted 
himself  to  her  more  assiduously.  But  she  was  not  con 
tent.  Now  she  was  more  sullen  than  ever  when  he  went 
from  her. 

One  afternoon  in  early  spring  Allard  had  called  for 
West.  He  was  working  at  the  time,  but,  at  the  sound  of 
the  man's  voice,  he  came  forth  and  greeted  the  visitor 
pleasantly.  Together  they  went  out.  The  passenger 
boats  had  just  commenced  to  run  again  on  the  Seine,  and 
they  rode  down  the  river,  returning  only  at  dusk.  When 
West  re-entered  his  apartment,  he  knew  by  Evelyn  Nae- 
smith's  manner  that  he  was  to  pay  dearly  for  his  after 
noon's  pleasure. 

"I  can  never  disturb  you,"  the  woman  began  hotly. 
"You  are  always  too  busy  to  have  me  intrude  on  your 
work.  But  when  Paul  Allard  wants  to  see  you — that's 
different !  Suppose  I  had  wanted  you  to  go  out  with  me 
this  afternoon,  would  you  have  gone  ?  .  .  .  No !  There 
would  have  been  work  which  you  would  have  preferred 
to  do." 

West  sat  down,  without  replying.  The  woman's  words 
did  not  affect  him  as  once  they  might  have  done.  He 
felt  that  his  friendship  with  Allard  was  too  sacred  and 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  319 

fine  a  thing  to  be  undermined  by  the  demands  of  any 
woman.  He  was  in  an  attitude  of  defence  against  any 
effort  of  hers  to  tear  down  the  splendid  structure  of  his 
affection  for  the  man  he  had  been  with  that  afternoon. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  stand  the  shame  that  such  knowl 
edge  gives  me?"  Evelyn  Naesmith  went  on.  "I  have 
given  you  everything  I  had  to  give.  I  have  sacrificed  my 
self-respect  and  my  good  name.  I  have  made  myself  a 
social  outcast  in  order  to  help  you  in  your  work.  And 
what  thanks  do  I  get  for  it?  I  am  treated  with  the 
indifference  which  only  a  prostitute  who  had  sold  her 
self  might  expect.  Do  you  think,  if  I  were  married  to 
you,  I  would  be  treated  this  way?  Never!  You  would 
respect  me — you  would  show  me  some  consideration.  I 
wouldn't  always  be  cast  aside  in  favour  of  your  friends." 
This  last  word  she  spoke  with  bitter  sarcasm.  "But  I 
suppose  it's  all  I  have  a  right  to  expect — -after  what  I  have 
given  you." 

Still  West  did  not  reply.  He  had  heard  variations  of 
these  same  remarks  before,  and  he  had  learned  that 
argument  only  prolonged  the  discussion  and  led  nowhere. 

The  woman  watched  him  angrily. 

"You  see,"  she  remarked  at  length,  "you  have  nothing 
to  say  for  yourself.  Your  silence  is  an  admission  that 
what  I  say  is  true.  .  .  .  Well,  I  have  borne  the  humilia 
tion  as  long  as  I  can.  If  you  no  longer  respect  me,  I,  at 
least,  have  my  self-respect  left.  If  Paul  Allard  means 
so  much  to  you,  I'm  sure  you  have  no  further  need  for 
me.  But  if  you  want  me,  then  you  will  have  to  give  him 
up.  I  won't  live  with  you  any  more  if  I  am  simply  to  be 
made  use  of  and  treated  like  a  child." 

More  than  once  West  had  considered  separating  from 
Evelyn  Naesmith.  His  reason  told  him  that  it  was  the 
best  thing  for  him  and  his  work;  but  when  he  projected 
his  mind  into  the  solitude  which  would  follow  her  depar 
ture,  he  experienced  a  sense  of  suffering  which  was 
greater  than  he  dared  invite.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 


320  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

face  the  future  without  her,  for  she  had  become  too 
inextricably  involved  in  his  instincts  and  desires.  She 
flooded  his  imagination,  and  he  was  jealous  of  her  when 
she  was  away  from  him.  Sometimes,  when  she  was 
absent  with  Amelie  Soen,  he  voluntarily  let  himself  imag 
ine  that  she  was  carrying  on  some  intrigue  behind  his 
back.  He  went  so  far  as  to  picture  the  details  of  this 
visionary  liaison,  and  the  mere  thought  of  it  suffocated 
him  with  sinister  rage  and  jealousy. 

It  was  in  such  moments  that  he  realized  how  complete 
and  basic  was  Evelyn  Naesmith's  hold  upon  him.  But 
to-day,  after  those  calm  and  cleanly  hours  with  his  friend 
in  the  brisk,  vivid  stretches  of  early  spring  landscape 
below  Paris,  he  felt  little  of  the  woman's  exotic  appeal. 
Her  threat  to  leave  him  created  in  him  no  fear  of  neu 
rotic  consequences.  To  the  contrary,  her  words  gave 
birth  to  a  feeling  of  antagonism  toward  her,  an  antagon 
ism  which  was  heightened  by  the  unreasonableness  of  her 
alternative  that  he  give  up  his  friendship  with  Allard. 

He  turned  to  her  without  emotion. 

"It  will  do  you  no  good  to  threaten  me,"  he  said 
calmly.  "If  you  are  determined  to  go,  I  shall  not  stop 
you.  Nor  shall  I  accede  to  your  demand.  It  is  not  a 
case  of  Allard  meaning  more  to  me  than  you.  The  re 
lationship  is  different.  My  joy  in  being  with  him  is 
purely  a  mental  one — it  is  impersonal,  if  you  like.  It  in 
no  way  intrudes  upon  my  inherent  love  for  you.  But 
if  you  care  for  me  so  little  that  you  would  deny  me 
this  friendship,  and  would  actually  leave  me  if  I  did  not 
give  it  up — then  I  would  not  want  you  to  stay.  .  .  . 
That's  my  answer.  Now  you  can  do  whatever  your 
instincts  dictate." 

The  catastrophe  which  his  harsh  words  seemed  to 
forebode  frightened  him  a  little,  despite  his  resolution, 
and  he  added  in  a  softer  voice :  "But  I  want  you  to  know 
this:  I  love  you,  and  it  would  hurt  me  deeply  if  you 
went  away.'* 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  321 

Evelyn  Naesmith  did  not  go.  The  next  morning  she 
came  to  West  in  a  state  of  humble  contrition. 

"Oh,  dear  heart/'  she  cried,  "don't  you  know  how  much 
I  love  you?  It  would  kill  me  if  I  had  to  live  without 
you.  I  couldn't  go  away  from  you — don't  you  know  that, 
dear  ?  I  don't  know  why  I  threatened  it  yesterday — but  I 
was  so  unhappy,  so  distracted  and  utterly  miserable,  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  saying.  I  only  knew  that  I 
wanted  you — that  I  had  to  have  you  at  any  cost.  .  .  . 
Oh,  forgive  me,  my  own — forgive  me  for  what  I  said ! 
I  didn't  mean  it — -it  was  the  agony  of  my  love  that 
spoke." 

West  took  her  in  his  arms  tenderly  and  happily.  Sev 
eral  times  during  the  night  he  had  wakened  in  fright  at 
the  thought  of  his  insecure  future  without  her. 


XXXII 

DURING  the  months  following,  a  change  seemed  to 
come  over  her.  She  was  attentive,  even  submissive,  and 
combated  none  of  his  decisions.  The  subject  of  Allard 
rarely  came  up  between  them.  There  was  never  any 
faultfinding  because  she  was  left  alone;  and  West  felt 
that  at  last  his  life  had  settled  into  a  routine  of  perpetual 
tranquillity.  Nevertheless,  he  was  conscious  of  some 
brooding  catastrophe.  His  very  happiness  seemed  to 
carry  in  it  a  portent  of  disaster.  He  could  not  trace  this 
apprehension  to  its  cause,  and,  since  it  was  so  slight,  he 
dismissed  it  as  a  normal  psychological  reaction  against 
his  perfect  felicity. 

One  day,  however,  when  he  informed  Evelyn  Naesmith 
that  they  were  to  dine  with  Allard  that  evening,  she  did 
not  reply  at  once,  but  seemed  to  be  considering  the  ad 
visability  of  her  acceptance  of  the  invitation. 

"Do  you  particularly  want  me  to  go?"  she  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"Of  course,  I  do,"  West  told  her,  perplexed  at  her 
reluctance.  "Amelia  will  be  there  and  will  expect  you." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  the  woman  agreed,  as  if  her  duty 
had  decided  her  against  her  inclination. 

"Why  do  you  accept  in  that  spirit?"  West  asked  her. 
"Don't  you  like  Amelie?  Has  anything  happened  be 
tween  you  and  her?" 

"No,"  she  admitted,  unwillingly.  "It's  not  Amelie. 
.  .  .  Only,  I'd  rather  not  go — unless  you  want  me  to  very 
much.  .  .  .  Don't  ask  me  to  give  a  reason.  It  may  be 
only  foolish  imagination  on  my  part — and  I  don't  want 
to  say  anything  about  it  until  I  am  sure." 

322 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  323 

The  man  regarded  her  curiously.  Obviously,  some 
thing  serious  was  troubling  her.  For  a  moment  his  mind 
considered  Allard  as  the  source  of  the  difficulty.  But  he 
could  not  understand  in  what  way  Allard  could  be  respon 
sible  for  this  disinclination  on  her  part.  Her  actions  and 
attitude  during  the  past  week  had  led  him  to  believe  she 
had  outgrown  her  antagonistic  jealousy  of  the  composer. 
Yet  he  felt  sure  that  she  desired  to  remain  away  from 
the  dinner  on  Allard's  account.  He  was  deeply  puzzled, 
but  did  not  question  her.  Nor  did  he  ask  her  to  explain. 
He  went  alone ;  and  the  affair  was  not  spoken  of  again. 

During  the  following  week  West  noticed  that  Evelyn 
Naesmith's  manner  had  undergone  a  change.  She  had 
become  almost  formal  with  Allard.  She  addressed  few 
remarks  to  him.  She  was  polite  and  courteous,  and  she 
bore  herself  toward  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  new  acquaint 
ance.  Still  West  did  not  demand  an  explanation.  There 
was  really  nothing  tangible  on  which  he  could  have  based 
a  complaint.  He  saw,  though,  that  Allard  was  aware  of 
the  alteration  in  Evelyn  Naesmith's  manner.  As  a  result, 
the  man  became  attentive  and  considerate  to  a  marked 
degree,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  overcome  her  rigid  atti 
tude. 

West  looked  on  without  remonstrance,  but  finally, 
when  she  again  asked  to  be  excused  from  an  excursion 
which  he  and  Allard  had  planned,  he  insisted  that  she 
give  an  explanation.  As  before,  she  attempted  to  evade 
the  question,  begging  him  to  accept  her  decision  without 
inquiry.  But  he  had  reached  the  point  where  he  worried 
greatly  over  the  situation,  and  he  would  not  let  the  mat 
ter  drop. 

"It  is  something  I  ought  to  know,"  he  said.  "You 
have  changed  greatly  toward  Paul.  You  avoid  him  when 
ever  you  can.  When  he  is  here  you  assume  a  manner  of 
reserve,  almost  of  conventionality.  You  decline  to  go 
with  me  to  his  house ;  and  now  you  do  not  wish  to  spend 
the  day  with  us  at  Saint-Cloud.  ...  I  want  to  know 


324  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

what  the  trouble  is,  and  I  think  you  owe  me  an  explana 
tion.  Paul  is  overgenerous  to  you.  He  treats  you  with 
the  utmost  consideration  and  kindness " 

"That's  just  it!"    The  woman  met  his  eyes  squarely. 

It  took  West  a  few  seconds  to  receive  the  full  signifi 
cance  of  her  words.  But  even  then  he  would  not  accept 
the  suspicion  as  final. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  sharply,  rising  and 
facing  her. 

"Oh,  Stanford,  don't  make  me  tell  you,"  she  pleaded. 
"Don't  you  see  it  will  only  make  trouble  ?  Aren't  things 
better  as  they  are?  I  don't  want  to  make  you  unhappy. 
I  don't  want  to  be  the  cause  of  any  cloud  coming  into 
your  friendship  with  Paul.  .  .  .  Please,  please  don't  in 
sist  upon  my  saying  any  more." 

A  hot  flush  of  abnormal  jealousy  nearly  blinded  the 
man.  The  emotions  he  had  suffered  when  he  speculated 
on  Evelyn  Naesmith's  possible  faithlessness  swept  over 
him  now,  not  as  mere  figments,  but  as  painful  realities. 
He  compressed  his  lips  and  narrowed  his  eyes.  His  hands 
worked  nervously. 

"Tell  me  the  whole  story,"  he  commanded  huskily. 
"Don't  attempt  to  avoid  anything.  Before  either  of  us 
ever  leaves  this  room  again,  I'll  know  all  there  is  to 
know." 

The  woman  drew  away  from  him  in  fright. 

"I — I'll  tell  you,  Stanford,"  she  stammered  excitedly. 
"But  it  isn't  anything — really  it  isn't!  It  isn't  serious. 
.  .  .  Don't  look  at  me  that  way !" 

"Go  on!"  said  the  man. 

"I  think — I  think  that  Paul  is  beginning  to  love  me," 
she  explained  in  a  low  voice.  "I  don't  know — but  certain 
things  he  has  said — things  he  has  done — make  me  think 
so.  One  day  in  the  Bois  at  Saint-Cloud,  when  you  and 
Amelie  were  far  ahead,  he  put  his  arm  round  me  to  help 
me  up  one  of  the  paths.  .  .  .  There  was  something  in 
the  way  he  did  it — the  way  he  held  me — that  made  me 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  325 

suspect.  .  .  .  When  I  drew  away,  he  looked  at  me  sadly 
and  reprovingly,  and  said,  'Don't  you  like  me  ?'  .  .  .  The 
next  day  when  he  was  here  he  whispered — when  you 
were  not  noticing — that  I  was  very  beautiful,  that  you 
didn't  know  how — lucky  you  were.  .  .  .  Then  he  looked 
at  me  in  the  eyes  longingly,  and  asked :  'Don't  you  know 
why  I  come  here  so  often?'  There  was  no  mistaking  his 
meaning  then.  .  .  .  After  that,  whenever  we  were  alone, 
or  he  had  the  opportunity,  he  said  just  such  things  to  me. 
.  .  .  He  told  me  he  always  thought  of  me  when  he  wrote 
his  music.  .  .  .  And  the  last  time  we  were  there  for  din 
ner — you  remember :  Amelie  was  playing  the  piano,  and 
you  were  following  the  score — he  put  his  hand  on  mine — • 
and — I  felt  a  shudder  run  through  his  body " 

She  was  sobbing  now,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  as  if  to  hide  her  shame  and  humiliation. 

West  said  nothing  for  a  long  time.  His  face  was 
white,  and  a  flame  of  black  anger  distorted  the  objects 
before  him.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  a  few 
times,  his  hands  clenched  tightly.  Then  he  came  to  an 
abrupt  halt. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  he  announced.  For  the  past  few 
moments  his  instincts  had  dominated  him.  Now  his 
reason  had  taken  the  upper  hand. 

Evelyn  Naesmith  looked  up  angrily. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  to  believe  it !"  she  flashed  at  him. 
"That's  the  reason  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you.  He's  your 
friend,  while  I'm  only  your — mistress.  It  would  make 
no  difference  anyway,  I  suppose.  Of  what  importance 
am  I,  after  all?" 

Her  words  stung  him  to  anger.  But  he  was  not  wholly 
sure  of  Allard's  loyalty.  After  all,  was  it  not  possible 
that  she  had  spoken  the  truth  ?  When  he  considered  that 
question,  he  found  that  his  pain  was  due,  in  large  part, 
to  his  possible  loss  of  faith  in  his  friend. 

"I  shall  find  out  for  myself,"  he  announced,  after  a 
moment's  troubled  thought.  "I  shall  watch  him  closely, 


326  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

and  I  shall  learn  the  truth.  .  .  .  Now,  get  ready  and 
come  with  me  to  the  dinner.  And  I  want  you  to  act  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand?" 

Thereafter  West  was  on  his  guard.  Whenever  Allard 
sat  near  Evelyn  Naesmith  or  addressed  a  remark  to  her, 
he  watched  them,  listening  for  some  sign  which  would 
verify  the  woman's  report.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he 
believed  that  he  had  noted  a  blameworthy  undercurrent 
in  the  other  man's  actions.  He  tried  to  argue  with  him 
self  that  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  them;  but  the 
poison  of  suspicion  was  eating  away  at  his  mind,  and  the 
activity  of  this  poison  was  increased  by  significant  glances 
from  the  woman  whenever  Allard  indulged  in  an  informal 
pleasantry  or  paid  her  a  conventional  compliment.  Once 
when  they  were  disembarking  from  the  boat  at  Neuilly, 
Allard  took  the  woman's  hand  to  assist  her,  showing  her 
a  preferential  consideration  over  Amelie  Soe'n.  A  hot 
rush  of  blood  inflamed  West's  cheeks,  but  he  restrained 
himself,  and  endeavoured  to  argue  away  Allard' s  acts  on 
the  grounds  of  courtesy. 

But,  after  that,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  feel  the 
same  toward  his  friend.  Gradually  resentment  crept  into 
his  attitude.  A  gnawing  doubt  was  at  work  in  his  brain 
— a  doubt  which  grew  more  persistent  as  the  days  went 
by.  Allard  had  done  nothing  which,  under  ordinary  cir 
cumstances,  West  could  have  set  down  definitely  as  hav 
ing  overstepped  the  boundary  of  propriety.  But,  despite 
himself,  he  read  hidden  meanings  into  words  and  actions 
which  on  the  surface  had  the  appearance  of  innocence. 
He  began  to  lose  his  affection  for  Allard,  for  he  could 
not  keep  back  the  constantly  recurring  notion  of  the 
other's  hypocrisy.  The  spontaneity  went  out  of  their 
relationship.  Their  conversations  lost  savour;  and  when 
Allard  called  at  the  studio,  West  wondered  as  to  the  real 
object  of  his  visits.  A  subtle  and  insiduous  corruption 
had  taken  place  in  West's  mind,  until  nearly  all  the  pleas- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  327 

ure  had  disappeared  from  those  hours  which  he  and 
Allard  spent  together. 

One  afternoon,  when  Evelyn  Naesmith  left  the  house 
to  make  some  purchases  he  was  assailed  by  a  quick  and 
terrible  suspicion  that  she  had  gone  to  meet  Allard.  His 
mental  torture  made  work  impossible,  and,  as  he  looked 
down  at  his  hands,  he  saw  they  were  trembling.  Within 
fifteen  minutes  his  suspicion  had  turned  to  a  belief,  and, 
in  a  state  of  almost  murderous  anguish,  he  hurried  out 
of  the  house  and  went  direct  to  the  other's  studio. 

Amelie  Soe'n  admitted  him,  and  led  him  in  to  the 
composer,  who  was  busily  transcribing  a  score.  At  the 
sight  of  him,  West  experienced  a  physical  weakness.  He 
sank  into  a  chair,  like  one  overcome  with  exhaustion. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  friend  ?"  Allard  accosted  him 
solicitously.  "You  look  like  a  man  who  had  seen  a 
ghost." 

West  smiled  weakly. 

"Too  much  work,  I  imagine,"  he  managed  to  say.  "I 
feel  played  out.  ...  I  thought  I  would  run  over  to  see 
you — to  use  you  as  a  kind  of  tonic." 

He  stayed  for  an  hour,  and  then  returned  to  his  apart 
ment. 

The  discovery  of  his  error,  however,  did  not  dissipate 
his  doubts.  His  emotions  had  been  too  indelibly  regis 
tered  for  any  mere  circumstantial  evidence  to  blot  them 
out.  He  had  grown  morbid  letting  his  mind  dwell  on  the 
idea  of  Allard's  infidelity,  and  during  the  next  few  days 
his  sufferings  increased.  Such  a  state  of  affairs,  he  knew, 
could  not  go  on.  His  strength  was  being  undermined. 
He  wanted  to  go  to  Allard  and  accuse  him  openly,  but 
there  was  nothing  specific  on  which  he  might  ground  his 
accusations.  He  was  fighting  in  the  dark  with  an  in 
visible  enemy.  He  thought  of  going  away — to  Florence, 
perhaps — and  of  taking  the  woman  with  him.  But  what 
could  he  say  to  Allard  ?  They  had  become  too  close,  and 
had  sworn  mutually  to  remain  always  with  each  other. 


328  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

There  was  no  reason  why  Allard  should  stay  in  Paris. 
He  had  often  said  that  even  should  West  return  to  Lon 
don,  he  would  go  there,  too. 

In  the  midst  of  West's  speculations,  the  climax  came. 
One  afternoon  he  crossed  the  river  to  view  an  exhibition 
of  paintings.  He  had  called  for  Allard,  but  was  told 
the  composer  was  not  in.  He  gave  no  thought  to  the  fact, 
but  left  a  request  for  the  other  to  join  him  at  the  galleries, 
if  possible.  Allard  did  not  appear,  and  it  was  nearly 
dusk  when  West  returned  home.  As  he  entered  his  stu 
dio,  he  heard  voices  coming  from  the  little  salon  back  of 
the  spiral  stairs.  As  he  drew  nearer,  he  recognized  Al- 
lard's  quick  and  impulsive  tones.  For  a  moment  his  mind 
went  blank  from  the  shock  of  his  jealousy.  An  unac 
countable  horror  seized  him.  A  primal  hatred  welled  up 
in  him  for  the  man  in  the  next  room.  When  he  recovered 
himself  sufficiently  to  control  his  movements,  he  walked 
to  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

Allard  rose  from  his  chair  beside  the  woman. 

"Well!  Here  you  are!"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Evelyn 
said  you  would  be  here  any  minute  and  asked  me  to 
wait " 

The  room  was  in  twilight,  and  at  first  Allard  could  not 
see  West's  features  distinctly.  But  while  he  was  speak 
ing,  he  became  aware  of  the  other's  glaring  eyes  and 
tense,  white  face.  Then  he  had  broken  off  his  words 
abruptly. 

West  turned  to  the  woman. 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  was  coming  immediately?  And 
did  you  ask  him  to  wait  for  me?" 

Evelyn  Naesmith  bit  her  lips,  as  if  she  did  not  want 
to  answer,  and  looked  down  at  the  floor. 

West  stepped  to  one  side,  and  pointed  to  the  open  door. 

"Now,  Allard,"  he  said,  fiercely,  "you  go !  And  don't 
ever  come  here  again." 

Allard  hesitated,  looking  first  at  the  woman  and  then 
at  the  enraged  man. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  329 

"Don't  wait !"  West  ordered  sharply,  his  nostrils  dilat 
ing  with  frenzied  passion.  "Do  you  think  you  can  de 
ceive  me?  Do  you  think  I'm  ignorant  of  what's  been 
going  on?  I'm  not  the  fool  you've  believed  me!  You 
come  into  my  house  under  the  guise  of  friendship  and 
take  advantage  of  my  trust  in  you.  At  first,  I  wouldn't 
believe  it ;  but  now  I  have  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes." 

Allard  drew  himself  up  and  glared  sharply  at  the 
woman,  who  sat  with  bowed  head,  her  hands  clasped 
tightly  over  the  arms  of  the  chair.  A  cynical  smile  swept 
over  his  face. 

West  approached  him  menacingly. 

"Leave  here  before  I  kill  you!"  he  said. 

Allard  moved  toward  the  door,  looking  pityingly  at 
the  man  he  loved. 

"You  poor,  deluded  fool !"  he  remarked. 

West  listened  to  the  other's  footsteps  till  they  had 
died  away.  A  feeling  of  unbearable  emptiness  and  loss 
consumed  him.  Suddenly  the  anger  in  his  heart  failed 
him.  So  this  was  the  end!  His  friendship  with  Allard 
was  over.  And  what  a  friendship  it  had  been!  How 
unexpected,  how  magical!  Now  he  had  renounced  that 
friendship,  renounced  those  days  of  confidence  and  eager 
perceptions,  of  understanding  and  intellectual  calm. 
Again  he  must  face  the  future  alone.  But  in  his  heart 
there  would  always  rest  an  unforgettable  memory;  and 
that  memory,  he  knew,  would  be  his  deepest  consolation. 
No  matter  what  other  human  relationships  the  coming 
years  held  in  store  for  him,  his  broken  friendship  with 
Allard  would  ever  remain  the  profoundest  and  dearest 
experience  of  his  life.  Sorrow  replaced  his  anger,  and 
he  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  out  into  the  gathering 
gloom  of  night,  broken  and  desolate. 

The  woman's  hand  upon  his  arm  awakened  him.  He 
turned  to  her  with  bitter  enmity,  and  regarded  her  a  mo 
ment.  He  felt  no  emotion  toward  her,  save  one  of  re- 


330  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

sentment.    He  threw  her  from  him  roughly,  for  he  real 
ized  that  to  her  was  attributable  his  consuming  sorrow. 

"Don't  touch  me!"  he  said  brusquely.     "I  want  to  be 
alone." 


XXXIII 

AGAIN  West  sought  solace  in  his  work.  During  the 
remainder  of  the  year  his  personal  appearance  altered 
greatly.  Up  to  now  the  indefatigable  years  had  touched 
him  lightly,  leaving  little  trace  of  their  passing.  He  had 
remained  young,  because  his  heart  had  been  full  of  the 
emotions  of  youth — hope,  aspiration,  desire.  But,  of  a 
sudden,  time's  finger  seemed  to  snatch  the  mask  of  resil 
ient  strength  from  his  features.  The  lines  in  his  fore 
head  and  about  his  mouth  visibly  deepened.  The  mus 
cles  of  his  cheeks  drooped,  the  fulness  of  his  lips  shrank. 
The  first  signs  of  greyness  showed  in  his  hair  which  had 
taken  on  a  look  of  sparseness.  His  hands  seemed  to  have 
lost  their  flexibility  and  to  have  grown  thinner.  When 
he  sat  huddled  in  his  chair,  his  legs  crossed,  there  was  an 
aspect  of  limpness  about  him.  Also  his  mind  had  been 
overcast  with  sombreness.  The  sensation  of  isolation 
affected  him  physically,  almost  like  a  disease.  No  one 
guessed  the  true  cause  of  the  intensity  of  his  distress  save 
Evelyn  Naesmith.  She  applied  herself  to  his  needs  with 
touching  solicitude.  She  alone  knew  how  profound  was 
his  solitude ;  and  her  actions  at  times  had  about  them  an 
air  of  repentance. 

West  had  grown  silent.  He  associated  with  other  men 
but  little ;  and,  when  he  was  alone  with  Evelyn  Naesmith, 
he  withdrew  into  himself  so  completely  that,  even  when 
she  spoke  to  him,  he  did  not  heed  her.  He  went  about 
his  work  and  ate  his  meals  as  if  unconscious  of  her  pres 
ence.  He  appeared  always  to  be  brooding  over  some 
great  wrong  that  had  been  done  him,  and  often  he  flared 
up  angrily  when  his  silent  meditations  were  interrupted. 

33i 


332  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

"You  have  brought  me  enough  sorrow,"  he  would  say 
to  the  woman.  "Don't  annoy  me  further." 

For  weeks  she  watched  him  patiently,  waiting  for  his 
suffering  to  pass.  But  when  he  showed  no  signs  of  re 
gaining  his  normality,  she  herself  became  indifferent  and 
sullen. 

"How  long  do  you  think  I  can  bear  this  sort  of  thing?" 
she  would  ask  him  petulantly. 

He  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  would  answer.    "And  I  care  less." 

Ever  since  the  day  that  he  had  ordered  Allard  out  of 
the  house,  he  had  harboured  a  blind  resentment  toward 
Evelyn  Naesmith.  His  affection  for  her  had  decreased 
steadily  until,  by  the  end  of  the  year,  her  influence  over 
him  had  died  away.  Then  it  was  that  hatred  had  entered 
his  heart.  The  sight  of  her  infuriated  him,  for  he  felt 
that  somehow  she  had  been  guilty  of  wanton  treachery. 
He  sat  for  hours  in  his  studio  with  his  papers  before  him, 
his  pen  in  hand ;  but  he  could  make  no  progress ;  his  mind 
refused  to  grasp  the  problems  of  his  task. 

Six  months  after  his  friendship  with  Allard  had  been 
severed,  he  rose  from  his  work  one  morning,  and  went  to 
the  woman. 

"I  am  through,"  he  told  her  harshly.  "The  end  has 
come.  Either  you're  going  away,  or  I  am.  Make  your 
own  choice.  So  long  as  you  are  in  the  same  house  with 
me  I  am  incapacitated  for  work." 

There  followed  a  heated  and  enervating  scene  in  which 
she  gave  vent  to  all  the  pent-up  fury  of  her  nature.  She 
hurled  threats  and  invectives  at  him,  and  ridiculed  him 
for  his  weakness.  But  her  words  did  not  affect  him.  To 
the  contrary,  he  felt  a  certain  pleasurable  relief  in  her 
wrath.  His  indifference  whipped  her  into  uncontrollable 
anger.  She  confessed  her  deception  in  regard  to  Allard, 
and  laughed  derisively  at  her  triumph. 

West  heard  this  admission  of  his  friend's  innocence 
without  astonishment.  He  had  secretly  felt  it  all  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  333 

time,  but  had  not  admitted  it  to  himself.  He  knew  now 
that  this  subconscious  knowledge  had  been  the  matrix 
in  which  was  born  his  hatred  of  the  woman  before  him. 
As  he  watched  her,  he  had  an  instinct  to  strangle  her,  to 
inflict  physical  punishment  upon  her.  But  the  instinct 
was  wholly  psychological.  His  body  did  not  respond. 
There  was  no  energy  back  of  his  impulse,  and  he  re 
mained  passive,  contemplating  her  with  a  sort  of  indulg 
ent  contempt. 

That  afternoon  she  passed  out  of  West's  life.  She 
had  told  him  she  was  going  at  once,  and  he  had  left  the 
house,  so  that  he  would  not  have  to  see  her  again.  The 
apartment  was  dark  when  he  re-entered  it  that  night.  He 
switched  on  the  lights  and  looked  about  him.  The  floors 
were  strewn  with  pieces  of  wrapping  paper,  broken  paste 
board  boxes,  discarded  garments,  odds  and  ends  which 
had  been  thrown  away.  The  closet  doors  were  open,  re 
vealing  empty  shelves  and  vacant  hooks.  West  passed 
from  one  room  to  another.  Everywhere  the  same  deso 
late  signs  of  hasty  decision  met  his  eye.  He  went  into  his 
studio  and  sat  down  before  the  empty  fireplace.  This 
dreary  climax  of  his  three  years  with  Evelyn  Naesmith 
left  him  singularly  unmoved.  A  feeling  of  peace  and 
freedom  buoyed  up  his  spirits.  It  was  nearly  dawn  when 
he  rose  and  started  to  retire. 

The  next  day  he  moved  to  smaller  quarters.  His 
money,  which  had  been  dwindling  rapidly  since  he  came 
to  Paris,  was  nearly  exhausted.  He  had  given  little 
thought  to  his  financial  condition,  for  Evelyn  Naesmith 
had  always  insisted  on  making  possible,  with  her  money, 
the  continuance  of  his  labours.  Now  he  was  confronted 
with  poverty.  But  he  figured  that  he  had  enough  so  that, 
if  he  practised  strict  economy,  he  could  finish  two  of  his 
books.  He  hoped  they  might  bring  him  an  income  suffi 
cient  for  his  actual  needs,  and  so  went  about  completing 
them  with  a  feverish  impulse  born  of  necessity.  He  had 
moved  to  a  little  studio  on  the  Avenue  du  Maine  in  an 


334  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

inexpensive  quarter;  but,  despite  the  sordidness  of  his 
surroundings,  he  experienced  a  feeling  of  personal  con 
tentment  which  had  never  been  his  during  his  years  with 
Evelyn  Naesmith. 

He  looked  at  the  facts  of  his  life  squarely,  and  analysed 
them  with  a  clinical  disregard  for  his  emotions.  He  ar 
rived  at  the  conclusion  that  it  had  been  his  idealistic  re 
gard  for  women  which  had  always  held  him  a  slave.  In 
each  woman  who  had  intimately  touched  his  life  he  had 
been  deceived.  He  had  overvalued  her,  imputing  to  her 
qualities  she  did  not  own.  Even  in  the  case  of  Evelyn 
Naesmith,  as  unusual  as  she  was,  he  had  been  blinded  to 
her  inadequacy  to  inspire  him.  Was  she,  after  all,  so 
different  from  the  women  of  lust  and  barter?  He  re 
called  Seminoff's  early  warning  and  believed  that,  at  last, 
through  bitter  experience,  he  had  come  to  a  knowledge 
of  the  truth.  The  tyranny  of  women — had  not  that  been 
his  curse?  But  there  could  be  no  tyranny  without  the 
cowardice  of  the  tyrannized.  Yes,  he  had  been  cow 
ardly.  He  had  not  been  dominated  except  to  what  ex 
tent  he  had  permitted  himself  to  be  dominated.  The  fault 
lay  in  him — he  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  himself  on 
that  point.  The  women  who  had  hindered  him  had 
merely  been  repressive  obstacles  which,  had  he  possessed 
the  power,  he  might  have  conquered.  His  appetites,  his 
emotions,  his  sentiments,  perhaps  even  the  biological 
imperative  of  his  nature — these  had  constituted  the  fac 
tors  of  his  weakness.  But  he  was  done  with  women  now. 
Henceforth  he  would  avoid  them  as  the  unconscious  ene 
mies  of  all  that  was  noblest  in  him.  At  last  he  had 
shaken  himself  free.  He  would  never  go  back  to  his  old 
mistakes.  He  felt  a  certain  exhilaration  in  his  resolution 
— an  exhilaration  which  neither  the  poverty  nor  the  hard 
ship  of  his  present  sordid  existence  could  dampen. 

He  turned  to  his  books  with  the  vigour  of  a  death 
agony.  He  found  himself  suddenly  in  possession  of  a 
plenitude  of  speech.  The  words  came  with  their  old 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  335; 

vivacity  and  rapture.  He  seemed  to  be  drunk  with  the 
very  essence  of  creation.  He  was  addressing  himself 
to  the  deepest  problems  of  life,  in  a  novel  manner,  from 
a  new  angle,  and  also  with  a  greater  dynamic  intensity 
of  feeling.  He  was  startled  by  his  own  facility,  by  the 
ease  and  freedom  with  which  his  mind  worked.  At  last 
he  could  see  himself  soaring  upward  through  the  years, 
free  of  all  restraints,  the  master  of  his  mind  and  spirit. 
But  he  knew  the  need  for  haste.  He  had  planned  a  gigan 
tic  ethic  of  culture  running  to  ten  volumes,  which  would 
cover  every  branch  of  human  aspiration;  and  many  of 
his  finest  creative  years  lay  behind  him,  sterile  and  lost. 

In  the  spring  the  first  book  was  completed,  and  he 
sent  it  to  his  London  publishers.  They  hesitated  and  re 
monstrated,  disappointed  at  the  nature  of  the  work.  But 
in  the  end  they  agreed  to  publish  it,  fearing  that  they 
might  lose  West,  and  hoping  that  his  next  manuscript 
would  be  a  novel  along  his  former  lines.  The  reviewers, 
for  the  most  part,  ignored  the  work,  though  a  few  criti 
cized  it  savagely.  But  there  were  those  men  all  over 
Europe  who,  having  passed  beyond  the  academic  stand 
ard,  welcomed  the  book  with  intelligent  praise. 

Seminoff  wrote  him  briefly:  "I  thank  God  you  have 
reclaimed  yourself.  Some  day  people  will  recognize,  just 
as  I  did  in  years  gone  by,  the  courageous  precision  with 
which  you  turn  the  white  light  of  your  intellect  upon 
the  fallacies  of  our  civilization.  You  have  become  strong 
again." 

Even  Paul  Allard  wrote  him  from  Leipzig:  "You 
have  repudiated  my  friendship,  but  you  cannot  repudiate 
my  admiration.  By  your  distrust  and  doubt  you  have 
forever  made  impossible  all  personal  relationship  be 
tween  us — you  have  destroyed  it  by  your  violence.  There 
fore,  it  is  not  as  a  friend  that  I  write  you,  but  as  one  who 
must  go  on  admiring  you  for  the  things  you  have  done 
and  are  doing.  On  all  other  subjects  I  must  keep  silent. 
I  sent  for  your  book  the  moment  I  heard  of  it.  It  has 


336  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

about  it  the  splendour  of  isolated  striving,  and  the  cour 
age  of  exalted  conviction.  Perhaps  you  knew  what  I 
would  think  of  it.  But  I  could  not  refrain  from  telling 
you  how  much  it  means  in  my  life,  what  strength  it  gives 
me.  Our  paths  lead  to  the  same  goal,  although  you 
have  chosen  to  separate  them  by  a  gulf  over  which  neither 
of  us  can  ever  pass  again.  I  beg  of  you  not  to  answer 
this.  I  make  that  request  in  spite  of  my  belief  that,  since 
we  parted,  you  have  learned  the  truth.  Amelie  has  heard 
from  Evelyn,  and  I  am  aware  of  the  way  your  affair 
ended.  I  have  always  understood  your  final  action  toward 


me." 


West  did  not  answer  Allard's  letter.  He,  too,  knew 
how  futile  would  be  any  attempt  to  remodel  their  friend 
ship  on  the  ruins  which  now  lay  before  them.  But  the 
letter  lent  him  courage,  and  in  the  desperate  solitude  of 
his  new  peace  he  turned  to  the  task  of  finishing  the  second 
book  in  the  series  he  had  planned. 

A  passionate  courage,  born  of  a  serene  and  untram- 
meled  mind,  coloured  and  tinctured  all  the  processes  of 
his  intellect.  The  idea  that  he  could  never  progress  with 
out  women  had,  in  his  early  youth,  taken  lodgment  in  his 
mind,  and  it  had  always  fashioned  his  actions.  But  at 
last  he  knew  that  that  idea  had  been  the  outgrowth  of 
an  instinct  whose  effects  he  feared.  The  moment  the 
instinct  had  been  conquered,  the  idea  departed.  Even 
now,  however,  he  was  conscious  of  a  loss,  and  there  were 
times  when  his  detachment  caused  him  suffering.  But 
his  pain  was  largely  physical.  It  did  not  impair  the  free 
exercise  of  his  brain,  as  he  had  always  imagined  it  would. 
Though  he  had  periods  of  depression  in  which  he  longed 
for  the  mothering  tenderness  of  a  woman's  love,  he  was 
still  able  to  continue  his  labours  without  signs  of  deterio 
ration.  The  attraction  of  women  still  held  him,  and  in 
the  evenings  he  would  often  walk  to  the  Cafe  du  Dome, 
or  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Rotonde,  and  sit  with  the  models  of 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  337 

the  quarter,  laughing  and  chatting  gaily  on  trivial  sub 
jects. 

These  girls,  who  made  no  pretension  to  learning,  and 
who  accepted  the  effervescences  of  life  as  the  profoundest 
realities,  gave  West  what  relaxation  he  craved.  On  re 
turning  to  his  studio  at  night,  he  often  wondered  if,  in 
this  utterly  inconsequential  and  impersonal  relationship 
with  the  feminine,  did  not  lie  the  secret  of  a  man's  sexual 
unity.  Was  not  levity,  after  all,  the  only  possible  com 
mon  ground  between  man  and  woman?  For  him,  at 
least,  he  was  satisfied  that  such  was  the  case.  Women 
were  merely  a  recreation,  a  plaything  to  be  taken  up  when 
the  mood  dictated,  and  put  aside  with  the  same  impersonal  .  / 
abandonment  that  one  would  put  aside  a  toy.  His  own 
role  was  that  of  the  fighter;  and  just  as  the  warrior  must 
go  into  battle  alone,  so  must  he  conquer,  single-handed, 
the  years  ahead. 

But  West  had  failed  to  count  on  the  tenacity  of  his 
past,  on  the  persistency  of  the  waves  he  had  set  in  motion 
during  the  years  of  his  delusion.  He  had  thought 
that  he  had  succeeded  in  swimming  out  into  serene 
waters  untroubled  by  the  currents  of  his  youth.  But  the 
influences  had  not  died  out.  They  had  even  gathered 
momentum  since  he  had  set  them  in  motion.  They,  too, 
like  the  activities  of  physical  energy,  had  gone  on  and 
on  with  perpetual  reiteration,  until  at  last  they  broke 
about  him  and  carried  him  down. 


XXXIV 

ONE  day  in  early  summer,  a  few  months  after  his  book 
had  appeared,  a  letter  from  his  wife  was  forwarded  him. 
He  had  not  heard  from  her  for  over  three  years.  During 
that  time  his  memory  of  her  had  lost  much  of  its  reality. 
But,  when  he  saw  her  handwriting,  he  felt  as  if  some  un 
pleasant  haunting  dream  had  come  true.  It  affected  him 
like  a  mystery.  He  might  have  felt  the  same  had  some 
one  he  knew  to  be  dead  suddenly  appeared  before  him. 
In  that  moment  he  realized  that  he  had  not  eradicated 
Alice  West's  influence :  he  had  merely  drawn  before  it  a 
curtain  of  indifference.  The  arrival  of  her  letter  drew  the 
curtain  aside  and  revealed  once  more  his  life  in  London. 
But  when  he  had  read  the  letter  and  found  that  it  did 
not  touch  upon  their  former  relationship,  he  was  unable 
to  dispel  his  first  impression.  He  re-read  it  several 
times  in  the  hope  of  recovering  himself;  but  each  read 
ing  added  confusion  to  his  emotions.  It  told  him  that 
his  mother  was  ill  and  was  not  expected  to  live  long ;  and 
it  asked  him  to  come  at  once,  as  his  presence  might  help 
her,  inasmuch  as  her  breakdown  hud,  in  a  way,  resulted 
from  the  shock  his  book  had  caused  her. 

"I  have  never  told  her  the  truth,  Stanford,"  the  letter 
ended,  "and  I  have  tried  to  disguise  my  own  suffering. 
I  have  said  that  you  are  busy  in  France  gathering  material 
for  new  novels.  You  see,  I've  hoped  against  hope  that 
some  day  you  might  grow  weary  of  your  present  life, 
and  that  your  mother  might  never  have  to  bear  the  bur 
den  of  the  true  facts.  But  after  the  first  year,  I  think, 
she  began  to  suspect  that  I  was  keeping  something  from 
her.  She  never  questioned  me  about  you.  But  I  could 

338 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  339 

see  by  numerous  indications  that  she  guessed  the  truth. 
Several  times  I  have  caught  her  in  tears.  She  has  been 
unusually  tender  to  me,  and  her  love  for  our  daughter 
has  been  one  of  the  most  wonderful  things  I  have  ever 
seen.  She  has  borne  up  well,  although  during  the  last 
year  there  has  been  a  hopelessness  in  her  eyes  and  in  her 
voice  which  has  frightened  me.  She  seems  to  have  grown 
very  old,  and  of  late  she  has  rarely  smiled.  I  tried  to  keep 
your  book  away  from  her.  Somehow,  I  personally 
couldn't  help  getting  it  and  reading  it.  And  one  day  she 
found  it,  and  her  silent  suffering  afterward  became  ap 
palling.  It  haunted  me  day  and  night.  Her  energy  and 
resistance  were  torn  down,  and  last  week,  all  of  a  sudden, 
her  vitality  gave  way,  and  we  had  to  put  her  to  bed.  The 
doctors  hoped  she  would  rally,  but  she  has  grown  steadily 
weaker,  and  it  was  suggested  that  I  send  for  you  at  once. 
I  have  a  feeling  that  if  she  sees  you  it  will  make  a  dif 
ference  to  her.  Therefore,  I  beg  of  you  to  come — not  for 
my  sake — but  for  hers." 

West's  grief  was  poignant,  but  he  could  not  dissociate 
his  sorrow  for  his  mother  from  the  sorrow  he  felt  for 
his  wife.  These  two  women  had  loved  him  greatly,  and 
that  love  seemed  to  weld  them  together  in  his  mind. 
In  Alice  West  he  saw  a  restatement  of  all  the  hopes  and 
longings  which  had  formed  the  basis  of  his  mother's  love. 

He  returned  at  once  to  America,  telling  himself  that 
in  another  month  he  would  be  back  again  at  work.  But 
when  he  looked  round  his  little  studio  with  its  cheap  fur 
niture  and  its  rows  of  books,  he  had  a  foreboding  he 
would  never  see  it  again.  All  the  logic  of  life  pointed  to 
the  fact  that  he  would  come  back  to  his  work,  but  that 
logic  was  insufficient  to  do  away  with  the  presentiment 
that  this  was  the  end.  An  irrational  impulse  made  him 
gather  all  his  papers  together  and  pack  them  carefully  in 
a  chest,  although  he  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  a 
sense  of  catastrophe  had  prompted  him  to  this  act. 

"It  will  be  safer  to  put  all  my  things  in  a  chest  while  I 


340  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

am  away,"  he  said  aloud.  "The  concierge  might  come 
in  and  disturb  them.  A  storm  might  break  the  skylight 
and  destroy  them." 

Ten  days  later  he  was  in  Saratoga.  But  he  was  too 
late :  his  mother  had  died  several  days  before.  The  news 
filled  West  with  a  sense  of  culpability.  His  conscience 
tortured  him  with  the  accusation  that  he  had  had  a  hand 
in  his  mother's  death,  and  his  pity  and  remorse  included 
his  wife  as  well. 

Alice  West  had  changed  much  in  the  last  three  years. 
The  tendency  toward  wistfulness,  which  had  always  char 
acterized  her,  had  grown  into  a  constant  expression  of 
sorrow.  Her  step  had  lost  its  elasticity,  and  much  of  the 
grace  had  departed  from  her  figure.  All  the  air  of  youth 
had  died  out  of  her  actions.  Her  voice  had  grown 
monotonous,  and  she  hesitated  sometimes  between  words 
with  the  indecision  of  approaching  age.  Her  eyes  had 
altered  the  most.  They  were  the  eyes  of  a  sick  woman, 
lack-lustre,  and  filled  with  vagueness,  as  if  they  were  look 
ing  inward  and  saw  only  the  things  of  the  heart. 

All  these  effects  of  suffering  West  noticed,  and  they 
filled  him  with  ineffable  pity.  Was  he  not  to  blame  for 
these  signs  of  his  wife's  grief  ?  Could  he  escape  the  guilt 
of  the  havoc  he  had  wrought?  He  wondered  how  he 
could  ever  have  felt  resentment  toward  this  broken  wo 
man.  An  overwhelming  tenderness  took  possession  of 
him,  for  he  was  face  to  face  with  an  irreparable  tragedy 
of  his  own  making — a  tragedy  more  terrible  than  any 
thing  he  had  before  experienced.  And  this  woman  whom 
he  had  ruined  and  brought  to  desolation  had  no  word  of 
blame  for  him,  only  the  silent  humility  of  an  ultimate 
love.  She  might  have  punished  him  for  the  great  wrong 
he  had  done  her,  but  her  grief  was  too  great  to  be 
assuaged  by  vengeance.  She  had  accepted,  without  com 
plaint,  the  punishment  of  his  own  disloyal  acts.  She 
was  tender  toward  him  with  a  sweetness  and  fidelity 
which  were  deeper  and  more  moving  than  forgiveness. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  341 

She  did  not  inquire  once  of  his  work  or  his  plans,  but 
chose  to  ignore  the  years  that  he  had  been  away  from  her. 

At  the  sight  of  his  child,  West  experienced  a  deep  and 
unfamiliar  emotion.  He  would  hardly  have  recognized 
her,  so  large  had  she  grown.  She  was  like  another  crea 
ture.  Curls  hung  down  her  back.  The  plumpness  had 
left  her  face,  and  had  been  supplanted  by  the  delicate 
lines  of  beauty.  She  was  nearly  nine  years  old,  fluent  of 
speech,  discerning,  restless  with  a  perpetual  interest  in 
life's  objectivity.  How  tiny  she  had  been  when  he  had 
last  seen  her !  How  detached,  too,  with  the  unquestioning 
indifference  of  her  five  years!  A  miracle  seemed  to  have 
been  wrought.  Now  she  was  moved  by  personalities,  al 
most  like  a  matured  person.  She  climbed  into  West's  lap 
and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  kissing  him  with  the 
ardour  of  childish  loneliness.  It  had  been  her  first  direct 
appeal  to  his  nature,  the  first  subtle  demand  for  his  care 
and  protection.  He  did  not  know  that  Alice  West  had 
brought  her  up  to  love  him,  and  had  talked  always  of  her 
father,  had  shown  her  his  picture,  had  implanted  in  her 
the  idea  that  he,  and  no  other  man,  was  the  one  character 
round  whom  her  little  imperfect  world  should  centre. 
She,  imaginative,  had  built  a  dream  about  him,  and 
had  worshipped  at  the  altar  of  her  make-believe.  When, 
at  last,  he  had  appeared  to  her  in  person,  as  someone  she 
could  touch  and  take  hold  of,  she  brought  him  all  the 
accumulated  love  of  her  lonely  visioning.  He  was  not 
a  stranger  to  her;  he  had  been  her  constant  companion 
ever  since  she  was  able  to  understand  her  mother's  words. 

West  saw  in  her  something  of  his  own  youth,  and  he 
saw  in  her,  too,  the  old  innocent  appeal  of  Alice  West 
herself  when  the  morning  sunshine  had  filtered  through 
the  church  windows  and  fallen  upon  her  neck  and  hair. 
The  child  represented  to  him  the  eternal  march  of  life's 
events,  the  new  order  rising  out  of  the  old.  She  symbo 
lized  that  paradox  of  the  world  which  grants  and  denies 
consummation,  which  ever  approaches,  yet  never  arrives, 


342  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

which  is  the  eternal  approximation  of  all  human  en 
deavour — the  law  of  generation.  He  himself  had  striven 
and  hoped,  had  struggled  forward  into  the  eternity  of 
the  future,  and,  in  the  end,  he  had  become  only  the 
fructifying  field  from  which  a  new  energy  would  take 
life  and  go  forward  into  the  years  he  could  never  see. 
While  in  the  circle  of  his  child's  yielding  arms,  life  seemed 
to  West  like  a  huge  engine  into  whose  furnace  all  hu 
manity  must  be  burned,  in  order  that  the  machine  might 
re-create  another  humanity  which,  in  turn,  must  be  fed 
to  the  furnace  for  the  production  of  still  another  hu 
manity.  How  could  he,  alone,  hope  to  fight  against  this 
cosmic  process  ?  Was  he  not  but  a  part  of  that  great  law 
of  destruction  and  re-creation? 

These  speculations  were  momentary,  but  in  some  cryp 
tic  way  they  seemed  to  explain  the  underlying  causes  of 
his  emotions.  The  child  had  aroused  in  him  the  full 
force  of  his  paternal  instinct,  and  his  wife  had  revived 
in  his  heart  a  pity  which  was  greater  than  all  desire  for 
achievement. 

The  following  afternoon  he  went  to  Alice  West  and 
asked  her  what  her  plans  were  for  herself  and  the  child. 

She  looked  at  him  a  long  time  before  answering. 

"There  is  no  need  of  burdening  you  with  our  affairs 
if — if  you  have  decided — to  go  back." 

"Let  us  drop  all  that,"  he  said  gently.  "I  want  to 
know  what's  in  your  heart  and  mind — >I  want  to  know 
everything.  It  is  no  time  now  for  evasion.  The  truth 
must  be  faced." 

A  ray  of  hope  shone  in  her  listless  eyes. 

"I  thought,  perhaps — that  is,  I  prayed  that  you  would 
stay — that  you  had  grown  weary  of  the  life  you  had 
chosen."  She  could  not  keep  back  her  tears,  but  she  went 
on,  paying  no  heed  to  them :  "The  money  is  gone.  The 
London  property  brought  much  less  than  you  thought  it 
would,  and  I  don't  know  where  to  turn.  Of  course,  there 
is  the  meagre  charity  of  relatives — >a  home,  perhaps,  for 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  343 

a  few  years.  But  after  that — I  try  not  to  think  of  it. 
...  If  it  were  only  myself,  I  wouldn't  care.  It  would 
make  no  difference.  My  life  is  over,  but  the  baby  must 
be  cared  for.  She  must  have  a  chance.  And  it  was  for 
her  sake  that  I  hoped  you  might — you  might — Oh,  Stan 
ford,  don't  you  see  what  I  mean?  That  poor  little  baby 
• — it  is  she  who,  in  the  end,  must  bear  all  the  burdens.  It 
is  her  future  that  will  be  sacrificed.  ...  It  is  a  terrible 
thing  for  a  child  to  grow  up  handicapped,  without  a 
father,  without  any  advantages,  always  confronted  by 
the  necessity  of  making  her  own  living.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
I  wonder  if  it  wouldn't  be  best  if  God  should  take  her  back 
to  Him  again  before  she  is  old  enough  to  know.  .  .  .  My 
own  life  doesn't  matter — don't  you  see?  I  would  will 
ingly,  joyfully,  give  up  my  life  to-day  if  I  knew — if  I 
were  sure — that  she  would  not  have  to  suffer,  that  she 
would  have  a  chance — a  chance  that  is  her  right." 

West  felt  the  world  of  his  early  hopes  gradually  sliding 
out  from  under  him.  Now  he  was  confronted  by  the 
last  irresistible  appeal — the  appeal  to  a  greater  chivalry. 

"She  shall  have  a  chance,"  he  said  softly,  like  one  who 
has  been  hypnotized,  and  is  being  led  into  admissions 
against  his  will. 

The  woman  took  courage  at  his  words. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  went  on  brokenly,  "that  if  she 
were  a  boy  it  would  be  different?  The  question  of  a  live 
lihood  could  then  be  solved.  She  could  make  her  own 
way.  .  .  .  But  she  is  a  girl,  and  she  needs  protection — • 
she  needs  help.  And  she  is  so  gentle,  so  sensitive,  so  keen 
to  all  influences.  .  .  .  Don't  think  of  me,  Stanford.  I 
would  never  ask  anything  for  myself.  But  I  do  want  you 
to  think  of  her.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  your  duty  to  do  something 
for  her?  She  is  of  an  age  now  where  a  home  would 
mean  everything  to  her.  You  don't  know  how  she  loves 
you — I  have  taught  her  to.  I  have  kept  the  ideal  of  you 
always  foremost  in  her  little  mind.  During  the  last  year 
scarcely  a  day  has  gone  by  that  she  has  not  spoken  of 


344  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

you  lovingly  and  asked  when  you  would  come  back  to  her. 
.  .  .  That  is  why  I  have  never  divorced  you.  That  is 
why  I  have  lied  to  everyone — pretending  that  you  were 
away  working.  No  one  here  knows  the  truth.  ...  It 
was  for  baby's  sake  that  I  did  it.  ...  And  I  always 
thought  that,  perhaps — perhaps  things  might  change — 
that  you  might  grow  tired  and  hear  the  call  of  her  little 
helpless  life." 

"You  have  kept  it  all  a  secret  ?"  asked  West.  "No  one 
knows  ?" 

"I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  tell  them/'  she  answered. 
"Don't  you  see  what  it  would  have  meant  to  the  baby — 
disgrace,  gossip,  the  gibes  of  her  playmates.  .  .  .  She 
would  never  have  outgrown  it.  She  would  have  carried 
that  sorrow  to  her  grave.  .  .  .  Wasn't  it  the  best  thing 
to  do,  Stanford,  especially  as  I  believed — deep  down  in 
my  heart — that  some  day  you  would  remember  her — your 
obligations  to  her  ?" 

West  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  where  he  stood 
looking  out  into  the  dense  green  of  the  summer. 

"Of  course,  you  are  right,"  he  agreed  in  a  weary  voice. 
The  cords  were  tightening  about  his  heart.  His  ambition 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  spent  itself.  He  had  fought  and 
suffered  for  years ;  he  had  gained  ground ;  and  then,  just 
as  he  had  come  within  striking  distance  of  his  goal,  there 
had  unexpectedly  loomed  up  in  his  way  an  insurmountable 
and  impenetrable  wall.  He  had,  as  he  thought,  freed  him 
self  from  the  influence  of  women,  but  he  had  forgotten 
his  daughter,  the  strongest  influence  of  them  all.  His 
strength  had  gone;  his  courage  had  failed.  After  the 
efforts  of  a  lifetime  he  had  arrived  at  a  brilliant  and  des 
perate  chaos.  There  was  no  resistance  left  in  him.  After 
a  moment  he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"Yes,  you  did  right,"  he  said.  "I  had  the  strength  to 
combat  my  mother — to  combat  even  you.  I  have  sac 
rificed  those  I  loved  on  the  altar  of  my  ambition.  But 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  345 

this  final  test  is  too  great.    I  see  now  that  I  could  never 
sacrifice  my  daughter  also.  ...  I  shall  stay/' 

Alice  West  rose  slowly  and  came  to  him  with  benumbed 
steps. 

"Stanford!"  she  exclaimed,  and  wept  hysterically. 

He  took  hold  of  her  gently  and  led  her  back  to  her 
chair.  In  anguish  he  watched  her  a  moment.  When  he 
saw  how  tremendous  was  the  effect  of  his  decision,  he 
could  not  resist  consoling  her  further. 

"I  always  intended — to  ask  you  some  day  if  I  might 
not  come  back,"  he  said.  "Not  only  for  the  baby's  sake, 
but  for  my  own,  as  well.  I  have  always  wanted  you — I 
have  always  suffered  for  what  I  did  to  you.  When  I  left 
Paris,  I  packed  my  things  in  the  hope  that  you  would  for 
give  me.  You  see,  I  had  grown  weary  of  the  life  I  was 
leading.  .  .  .  But  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  now — 
only  the  wreck  of  what  I  was  once.  But  I  will  atone — I 
will  make  amends." 

The  woman  took  his  hand  in  hers. 

"I  knew  you  would  come  back,"  she  sobbed.  "And  that 
knowledge  is  all  that  has  kept  me  alive.  I  knew  that  some 
day  you  would  see  the  error — the  terrible  error — of  your 
vain  fight  against  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful  in  life. 
.  .  .  But  we  can  begin  again,  can't  we,  Stanford?  My 
love  is  greater  than  anything  in  the  world.  It  can  over 
look  anything,  because  it  is  a  love  that  understands.  And 
I  do  understand  the  things  you  have  done.  I  know  how 
you  have  suffered,  how  you  have  paid  the  price  for  your 
weakness — as  everyone  must.  ...  I  prayed  that  you 
would  not  suffer  too  much,  for  I  wanted  you  to  be  happy. 
.  .  .  Let  us  start  anew,  dear.  Let  us  try  to  find  what 
peace  we  can  during  the  remaining  years  of  our  life.  Oh, 
let  us  grow  old  together  in  the  serenity  of  our  faith  and 
love  for  each  other.  Let  us  try  to  forget  the  nightmare 
of  the  past  few  years.  We  will  blot  it  from  our  lives. 
We  must  do  these  things — if  only  for  the  baby's  sake. 
.  .  .  My  husband!  My  little  boy!" 


346  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

The  next  morning  West  was  out  on  the  lawn  playing 
with  his  daughter.  He  heard  approaching  footsteps  be 
hind  him  and  looked  round.  Caleb  Matthews  was  coming 
toward  him.  The  man  looked  little  older  than  he  had 
when  West  had  known  him  as  a  boy.  He  walked  briskly, 
almost  jauntily.  Only  his  hair  seemed  to  have  recorded 
the  passing  of  time :  now  it  was  snow-white  and  thin. 

"Stanford,  my  boy!"  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his 
hand.  "After  all  these  years !" 

He  regarded  the  other  a  moment,  adjusting  his  glasses 
with  extreme  deliberation  and  care. 

"Yes,"  he  commented,  "I  can  see  your  father  in  you." 

For  many  years  West  had  completely  forgotten  the 
existence  of  this  old  friend  of  his  father's;  but,  at  the 
sight  of  him,  his  early  memories  rushed  back.  After  all, 
it  was  not  so  long  ago  that  he  had  gone  from  Greenwood. 
And  yet,  he  thought,  Caleb  Matthews  must  be  well  along 
in  his  sixties.  He  himself  had  passed  forty. 

"Ah,  and  here's  the  little  lady!"  the  newcomer  ex 
claimed  in  a  tone  of  patronizing  paternalism.  He  looked 
up  at  West.  "Miss  West  and  I  have  met  before.  .  .  ." 
His  manner  became  serious.  "And  now,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

The  child  came  close  to  her  father  and  clung  to  his  arm. 

"Stanford,"  began  the  older  man,  "your  wife  has  told 
me  something  of  your — what  shall  I  say? — financial  dif 
ficulties.  .  .  .  No,  not  that  exactly;  but  she  gave  me  to 
understand  some  time  ago  when  your  work  in  Europe 
was  completed,  you  might  come  back  to  Greenwood.  .  .  . 
It  occurred  to  me  from  something  she  said  that  you  would 
accept  a  post  at  the  College.  You  remember  your  father 
always  wanted  you  to  go  on  with  his  work.  I  told  your 
wife  that  I  would  try  to  get  you  to  join  our  staff.  I  am 
the  Director  now,  have  been  ever  since  your  father's 
death.  .  .  .  Let  me  see — it's  been  over  a  year  since  I 
had  this  talk  with  your  wife;  and  when  you  didn't  come 
back,  I  took  it  for  granted  you  were  too  absorbed  in  your 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  347 

work.  I  was  disappointed,  for  the  College  needs  men 
like  you,  men  of  broad  learning  and  achievement.  .  .  . 
Yesterday,  your  wife  sent  me  word,  saying  you  were 
here ;  so  I  thought  I'd  come  over  to  welcome  you  and  see 
if  you  would  consider  the  appointment — professor  of 
English.  The  formalities  can  be  arranged  easily." 

West's  hand  rested  on  his  daughter's  head.  He  hesi 
tated  but  a  moment. 

"I  should  be  most  happy  to  accept.  We  are  moving  to 
Greenwood  in  a  few  days.  We'll  re-open  the  old  house. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  think  a  post  at  the  College  would  be  just  what 
I  want." 


XXXV 

THREE  days  later  Stanford  and  Alice  West  and  their 
child  entered  the  old  Greenwood  home  on  River  street. 
For  nearly  ten  years  it  had  been  sealed  up,  and  no  one  had 
ever  set  foot  in  it.  Workmen  had  torn  down  the  boards 
from  the  windows  and  doors,  and  the  dust  had  been  re 
moved  and  the  windows  cleaned,  according  to  West's  in 
structions  sent  from  Saratoga.  When  he  arrived,  the 
house  was  ready  for  occupation.  The  furniture  stood  as 
he  had  last  seen  it.  The  books  in  the  library  were  on  the 
shelves  as  in  the  old  days.  Nothing  had  chang-ed.  The 
home  had  remained  as  Joseph  West  had  left  it,  and  it 
had  waited  as  he  had  planned  it  should  wait  when  he 
wrote :  "until  such  day  as  my  own  should  be  forever  lost 
to  me,  or  when  my  own  should  return  to  the  quiet  ways 
which  had  been  mine,  and  my  father's,  and  his  father's 
before  him." 

His  own  had  returned. 

It  took  many  days  for  West  to  adjust  himself.  He  was 
silent  and  preoccupied.  The  collapse  of  his  hopes  had 
been  sudden,  but  the  process  of  that  collapse  required  time 
to  complete  itself.  The  underpinning  of  his  existence 
had  been  knocked  out.  At  first,  the  superstructure  had 
settled;  then,  one  by  one,  the  walls  had  caved  in  until 
gradually,  surely,  inevitably,  every  pillar  and  lath  that 
he  had  built  up  with  the  sweat  of  suffering  gave  way, 
tottered,  and  took  its  final  place  on  the  mass  of  ruins. 
For  West  there  was  no  going  back,  no  rebuilding.  The 
end  had  come,  and  he  alone  had  been  to  blame.  In  his 
youth  he  had  used  defective  materials,  and,  as  the  years 
went  by,  the  strain  of  the  edifice  he  had  erected  grew 

348 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  349 

too  great.  He  was  too  old  now,  too  full  of  weariness,  to 
attempt  a  redintegration  of  the  many  units  of  his  past. 
He  had  come  back  to  the  place  from  which  he  had  started. 
He  had  described  the  cycle  of  his  life's  ambition,  like  a 
man  lost  in  the  desert,  who  had  spent  his  energy  and 
strength  battling  against  an  ever-increasing  weakness  and 
an  ever-approaching  death,  toward  the  mirage  of  the 
horizon,  only  to  find  that  in  the  end  he  had  walked  in  a 
circle,  and  had  come  back,  exhausted  and  defeated,  to 
his  starting  point. 

This  feeling  of  final  and  hopeless  surrender  to  the  hid 
den  motives  of  existence  had  its  parallel  even  in  the  ob 
jective  elements  of  his  surroundings.  Here  were  the 
old,  familiar  scenes  in  which  he  had  first  struggled  into 
consciousness.  It  might  have  been  yesterday  that  he 
had  gone  forth  into  the  world.  A  hundred  familiar 
details  of  his  home  came  back  to  him  with  the  vivid  fresh 
ness  of  a  recent  experience.  The  house  seemed  only  to 
have  diminished  in  size.  The  dimensions  of  the  rooms 
appeared  smaller.  The  spaces  in  the  yard,  the  distances 
between  trees,  the  length  of  the  path  that  led  to  the  street 
— these  had  shrunk  during  the  years  of  his  absence. 
When  he  had  last  seen  them,  it  was  with  the  eyes  and  per 
spective  of  boyhood.  As  he  had  grown  older,  so  had  his 
sense  of  relative  distances  grown  greater.  But  he  soon 
became  accustomed  to  the  new  proportions.  His  vision 
underwent  a  readjustment  until  at  last  it  became  normal 
again. 

The  growth  of  Greenwood  had  taken  place  in  a  distant 
quarter  of  the  city:  it  had  spread  out  on  that  side  which 
was  farthest  from  the  river,  so  that  the  material  surround 
ings  of  the  neighbourhood  to  which  West  had  returned 
retained  their  air  of  old  familiarity.  As  he  looked  to  the 
hills  across  the  river,  and  to  the  top  of  Crow's  Nest  up 
which  a  yellow  ribbon  of  path  still  stretched,  his  heart, 
like  his  vision,  became  transformed.  He  could  see  him 
self,  once  more  a  boy,  standing  meditatively  on  the  crest 


350  THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE 

of  the  hill,  dreaming  wild,  impossible  dreams,  thrilling 
with  futile  emotions  at  the  dawn  of  his  life's  battle,  ex 
alted  with  resplendent  visions  of  success.  Turning  again 
to  the  house,  he  half  expected  his  father  to  appear  in  the 
doorway,  or  his  mother  to  call  to  him  from  her  room  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  Instead,  the  slender  figure  of  a 
child  ran  toward  him  from  the  shadows  of  the  dining- 
room.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  his  youth  seemed  almost  a 
thing  of  antiquity — -something  he  had  known  in  a  former 
incarnation,  separated  from  his  present  self  by  centuries. 

One  night,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  father's  study,  glancing 
over  many  of  the  forgotten  records  of  other  years,  he 
came  across  the  diary  of  that  gentle  man  who  had  been 
his  first  companion.  He  opened  the  book  casually,  letting 
his  eye  glance  at  items  opposite  dates  which  stood  alone 
on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  page,  separated  from  the 
main  body  of  writing  by  a  thin  red  line.  For  a  while  he 
read  here  and  there,  indulging  in  a  retrospection  which 
stirred  the  very  springs  of  his  sorrow.  Here,  before 
him,  was  the  visible  record  of  his  youth.  .  .  .  How  futile 
was  all  human  effort!  How  much  better  it  would  have 
been  had  he  entered  the  State  College  when  he  was  still 
a  young  man !  Now  his  father  would  never  know  that, 
at  last,  he  had  come  back  to  the  path  of  his  tradition. 

With  sudden  curiosity  he  turned  the  faded  pages  of  the 
diary  to  the  date  of  his  birth,  and  read  the  entry  opposite 
it:  ...  "and  in  the  hearts  of  your  mother  and  of  me, 
your  father,  will  ever  burn  the  desire  that  you  will  be 
upright  and  strong;  that  in  your  early  youth  you  will 
show  the  promise  of  true  greatness;  and  that,  in  your 
riper  years,  you  will  fulfil  that  promise  to  the  honour  of 
us  who  loved  you  and  nurtured  you." 

His  eyes  were  blinded  with  a  burning  mist.  He  heard 
the  door  open  softly,  and  he  closed  the  book  with  a  feel 
ing  of  shame  and  guilt. 

Alice  West  came  softly  across  the  room  to  where  he 
sat. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROMISE  351 

"Dear  heart,  I  couldn't  stay  away  to-night,"  she  whis 
pered,  kneeling  down  close  to  him.  "My  peace  seems 
greater  than  I  can  bear  alone.  ...  To  think  that  we  are 
here  together  again,  united  forever  by  a  love  which  is 
greater  than  any  suffering!  It  seems  that  I  have  waited 
and  dreamed  through  an  eternity  for  this  moment.  .  .  . 
And  we  shall  be  closer  and  dearer  to  each  other  for  all 
we  have  gone  through.  .  .  .  This  home,  after  all,  has 
been  my  real  hope,  even  during  our  life  in  London — Oh, 
I  shall  be  happier  now  than  ever  before.  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
dear  heart,  that  I  am  not  foolish  to  believe  that." 

West's  arm  drew  her  to  him;  and,  when  she  looked 
up  into  his  face,  he  was  smiling.  She  thought  it  was  a 
sign  of  contentment.  She  did  not  know  that  behind  his 
smile  was  a  sense  of  unutterable  and  tragic  irony. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


subject 


RETC'D  CD 

NO'V  9 


HECD  LD 

JUN  6 


LD  21-10 


IffiUtS  MAY 


AUTO.  DISC 
DEC  06  1988 


8 


-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


Y.C  94057 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


